


Promised Hands

by FrozenSnares



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:27:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 51,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4912369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenSnares/pseuds/FrozenSnares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shireen Baratheon was afflicted with greyscale very young. Even in her youth, Stannis worried for her future. He sought to give her a good marriage, a noble husband, and someone who cared for her in spite of the affliction. Though she is still very young, Stannis turns to Ned Stark and asks for a betrothal to one of his sons.</p><p>Canon Divergence AU in which canon never happens:<br/>Westeros prospers under the rule of Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn is alive, Robert never goes to Winterfell, Stannis has Storm’s End, Renly has Dragonstone, and Rickon is two years younger than Bran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Betrothal of Honorable Origins

Dark shadows creep across the floor in the keep, cloaking the many rooms in darkness. Though the light of the moon shines through on most nights, the clouds block any light and serve to signal a storm to come. Hard winds shake the tapestries hanging on the wall, allowing no rest for the liege lord and lady while the window remains open. Stannis Baratheon is a severe man, serious in his sense of duty, and still stuck in his honor as he contemplates the state of affairs he is in.

For the past few years, Storm’s End has been in chaos, mirroring the temperament of their liege lord as he battled for the life of his child. Maesters from all over the world had come to see her, to heal her, on the promise of riches should they cure her. But there was no cure for greyscale. Stannis still curses himself for ever allowing a ploy to overcome him and bring harm to his child. A foolish mistake with rough consequences for overlooking such matters… He had doomed his daughter to a cruel fate, and he would find a way to make it right.

Though Shireen Baratheon now slept soundly and had not worsened in over year, Stannis worries. His wife has yet to have another child quicken in her womb, and he fears that his daughter will be his only heir. Pacing the length of the hall, Stannis glances out a window every few moments, hoping to see dark wings arrive this night, even though he has been waiting on them for weeks.

It may have been a rash decision, a reckless thought that made him send the raven, but he has no other options now. Surely, any lord that proposed a betrothal to his daughter would do so for the dowry, the lands, and the titles she will inherit, but to willingly give her a life where she would be void of happiness, he would not do. Already, she was walking and talking with no other children to keep her company. Every possible child who could be companion to her was kept securely away for fear of catching her greyscale. Lords and ladies across the lands have refused his many offers of gold, titles, taking squires, or raising children in the castle to protect their children from contracting her illness. And he could place no blame on them. He would have done the same.

Down the long hallway a door cracks open, and Stannis turns to the noise. A small flicker of light illuminates the stone walls against the will of the clouds, and Stannis sees his wife leaving their chambers.

“Have you given up hope on me already?” Selyse asks. His wife is not a beautiful woman, nor has she been successful in providing him an appropriate heir, but he has always done his duty by her. Selyse walks toward him slowly, the skirt of her nightdress dragging on the floor behind her. She carries a single, lit candle in a tight hand, looking at him with weary eyes. 

Stannis shakes his head. “I expected you to be with Shireen, seeing as she has no other company,” he tells her. “Surely, she would appreciate her mother’s presence.”

Selyse lets out a loud sigh, amplified in the dark of the hallway. “She sleeps well now,” she responds. With careful steps, she walks past Stannis to look out the far window. “A storm approaches… an ill omen… No raven will fly here for another fortnight. Come; let us rest while we can.”

With all the faults Stannis had found in his wife, he still admired her small bit of optimism. She had, at the very least, been willing to give herself in every effort to provide him a son. Stannis had no faith that it would ever be so, but for the sake of her and for his daughter, he would do his duty, if only to keep Shireen from the lords who would do her harm. Slowly, he followed her back to their chambers, lit only by her single candle.

“You’ve requested others to send children to be companions for her, then?” Selyse asks, placing the candle on the table beside the bed. She takes a careful seat on the edge of the bed, turning to face him.

Stannis walks through the room, going to close the window and take another hopeful look outside. “Edric Dayne isn’t much older than her. He could be my squire,” Stannis says. “And the Starks have a daughter her age.”

“And you think they would forfeit their children to live with our diseased child?” Selyse asks back.

Stannis can hear the distaste in her words, fueling his anger and annoyance at her cruel remarks. “Shireen is cured,” he spits out. “And I will not have my daughter live a life excluded from everyone around her.”

“We cannot even find handmaidens for her,” Selyse reminds him, lying back in the bed. “No one would go near her save for fools and stone men.”

Narrowing his eyes at his wife, Stannis joins her in bed, though slowly. “The Daynes of Starfall are of noble blood, and Lord Stark is an honorable man,” he says evenly. “They can see past her affliction and give adequate responses.”

“So you would send Shireen to Dorne?” Selyse asks. “To be wife to Edric Dayne?”

“Eddard Stark has sons, too,” Stannis says. He looks over in time to see his wife’s eyebrows shoot up.

She lets out a high, mocking laugh. “You proposed a marriage?” she asks. Her voice was shrill, piercing through the cold air in their chambers. “Even the great, honorable Ned Stark wouldn’t doom his bastard to a life with our ruined child. Northerners fear greyscale far more than we do.”

“Perhaps,” Stannis says tersely. He still holds out hope: hope that Shireen’s life will not be miserable, that he has not yet failed as a father, that he could right the wrong he did to her. With great unease and discomfort, Stannis settles in for the night, praying for a raven to return with good news.

As Selyse predicted, storms raged over his lands for the next two weeks. Largely confined to the castle, Stannis oversaw matters of the land as best he could. He made daily trips down to the docks, making sure that crews who survived the churning waters of Shipbreaker Bay were cared for and fed. Not many would brave the storms to make their deliveries, but Stannis knew that at least one man would put forth every effort to come to his aid. Though the siege of Storm’s End during Robert’s Rebellion was long past, few merchants and sailors came to the bay, but Davos Seaworth had never failed to serve Stannis.

He arrives during a short lull in the storms, when ships are not in danger of capsizing though the sheet of water that falls is constant and relentless. Knowing that the former smuggler would continue to deliver his rounds, Stannis braves the storm in his heaviest cloak to meet the man.

“Ser Seaworth, a pleasure,” Stannis greets, raising his voice to be heard over the pouring rain. He knighted the man himself, and Stannis is pleased to see that fortune hasn’t ruined him as it ruins so many other men.

Davos is a jovial bounce on the slick deck as he approaches Stannis. He kneels respectfully, plunging his knee deep into a cold puddle. “Lord Baratheon,” he says in return. Stannis beckons him to stand, and he does so with a laugh. “Onions for your court, though I expect you get more now.”

“Storm’s End will be forever indebted to your service,” Stannis says evenly. He knows his paces here, knows that eyes are watching and other captains seek his approval as well. “You’ll join me in the castle,” he says, a bit sharper than he wants, though he turns on his heel to leave nonetheless. Stannis will not correct his tone, particularly for the sake of one of his subjects.

It is a short while later that Davos joins him in his solar. As a testament to his new lordship, he makes no effort in improving his appearance, arriving in his rain-soaked attire. As further proof of his lack of experience, he speaks first. “How is little Shireen?” he asks immediately after he strides in, not bothering to take a seat.

“She is well,” Stannis says curtly. He walks across the room, wondering whether he should continue explaining or wait for the question to come. Unfortunately, his worries are mounting on each other, and he cannot stop himself from speaking further. “Her greyscale hasn’t harmed her any further. She eats, she sleeps, but she lacks company. No one will go near her.”

Davos lets out a low chuckle. “I’ve sons,” he says simply. “I’ll send them all over to court her if need be.”

“That cannot do,” Stannis replies. He stops himself from sounding so curt. “I will gladly take in one of your sons as squire, and they will grow with Shireen, but I must think of her future. I’ve given her a horrendous life.”

“She’ll have a great life,” Davos interjects loudly. No other lord would dare to address Stannis in this manner, but right now Stannis admires his candor. “Shireen will grow up as a lady of Storm’s End, a survivor of a terrible illness, perhaps the only survivor, but she shall have a wondrous life because of you.”

Stannis sighs, sitting in his chair. He had expected such a response from Davos, but now he hopes that the knight will offer more reassurances for his actions. Inhaling sharply, Stannis leans over the table, resting his elbows securely on top of it. “I’ve already begun seeking a betrothal for her,” he admits.

Surprise is written clear across Davos’s face, and he furrows his brow in thought. “She’s far too young for that,” he says. “You’ll never know what kind of lord the boy will be.”

“With the recent rejections of companionship for her, I must look forward,” Stannis tell him. “I’ve sent ravens across the realm, asking for noble ladies to accompany her in the keep, asking for lords to consider arranging a marriage for her.”

“They’ll all accept surely,” Davos said brusquely. He finally settles into the chair across from Stannis, sensing that the conversation is far from over.

“None have so far,” Stannis tells him. He shakes his head slightly, rummaging through his papers for a sheet. He pulls the parchment free and hands it to Davos.

Davos snorts, pushing the paper away. “You know I can’t read,” he proclaims loudly. “What does it say?”

Stannis sighs, looking back down at the parchment in front of him. “It’s a list of every noble house in Westeros, and every child of an age with Shireen,” Stannis tells him. “I had my maester write it up, and I’ve personally written to every one of them. None have agreed to any terms.”

“None want Storm’s End?” Davos questions.

“They all think I’ll have a son—a true heir,” Stannis corrects. “And none will have their son wed without the promise of the title.”

There is a small lull where the men simply regard one another, seeking out the unspoken words that fall between them. Surely, Stannis needn’t be quite so explicit with his request. Davos may not be a learned man, but he was a smart man. Pouring rain fills the room up with noise, the occasional crack of lightning illuminating the stone walls around them. Stannis makes eye contact as long as he can before Davos heaves out a heavy sigh and stands up.

“I should see her, then,” he says, brushing off his breeches. He walks slowly to the door. “She’ll be expecting me.”

“She will,” Stannis agrees. It isn’t hard for him to recall the familiarity that Shireen treated Davos with. They walk through the castle, coming across fewer and fewer people until they reach Shireen’s rooms. Slowly, he opens the door to her chambers, seeing her familiar black hair already reaching her shoulders and a colorful book open in front of her. At the noise of the door opening, she turns. Massive, bright blue eyes fix them with a curious look before joy fills her eyes. Stannis looks carefully at the marks the greyscale has left on her—marks that she will have for the rest of her life.

Shireen bounces to her feet, running at them. “Daddy!” she calls, going over to hug his legs. Her arms wrap tight around his knees, and he allows himself a small moment to admire her strength.

As tall of a man as he is, Shireen comes up just past his knee. Though, he means to kneel down before her, Davos beats him to it. “Princess Shireen,” he says cordially, “how fare your lands?”

Shireen laughs. It is a carefree, lighthearted laughter that fills the chambers. It is laughter that would make other children join in if they could see past her face. Shaking the thought, Stannis looks back to his daughter. “I’m a lady,” she says firmly. Stannis can hear the effort her tongue puts into forming the words. “Not a princess because Daddy isn’t a king!”

“Rightly so, milady,” Davos replies. He shoots Stannis a grin before sitting down next to Shireen. “And do you remember who I am?”

“Ser Onion Knight!” Shireen exclaims. She runs across her room to retrieve a small scrap of cloth with an onion sewn onto it. “My spepta—spe—s—septa made that for me!”

“And she taught you your sounds?” Davos asks, earning himself an enthusiastic nod from the little girl.

“And letters!” she shouts. She runs over to pick up the book—a great effort for one so small—and places it on Davos’s lap. Shireen points a small finger at a massive galley illustrated on the page. “It’s a boat!”

“That it is,” Stannis agrees. “What do you think it carries?”

“Onions!” Shireen replies at once. Her hair bobbles over her shoulders with her movement.

Davos gives her a questioning look. “If it carries onions, then who does it belong to?”

Shireen giggles, poking him in the shoulder. “Ser Onion Knight!” she calls out. She grins up at Stannis, who gives her a small nod. Then, she turns the page in the book, chattering on and on about the pictures in the book. Occasionally, her tongue trips over her pronunciation, and Stannis calmly repeats the word for her until she says it properly. Shireen shows off her ability to count, sticking up her fingers and reaching for Davos’s hand when she hits the limit of her hands.

After a while, the door swings further open. Stannis turns to see Selyse, carrying a few more books. She spares him the smallest of glances before narrowing her eyes at Davos. “Ser Davos,” she greets curtly. “Surely you are here to give council, not to play with children.”

Clearing his throat, Davos stands, making sure to place Shireen’s book gingerly on the floor. “Of course, Lady Selyse. Shireen just—”

“My daughter has much to do,” Selyse tells him sharply. She sweeps into the room and snatches the cloth bearing an onion out of sight. “I brought you more books.”

Shireen gives the books a hard look before turning back to Davos. “Are you leaving?” she asks, her small voice threatening to break.

Davos gives her a warm smile. “I have to go sail my onions around, milady.”

Shireen’s face falls. She rushes over to hug his legs. Stannis clears his throat gently, and Shireen takes a step away. However, she reaches up to clutch onto Davos’s fingers. “Won’t you stay for dinner?” she asks, looking to her father with pleading eyes.

Stannis glances over to see Selyse’s hard expression before turning back to his daughter. Shireen is pouting and rocking slightly on her heels. Though he knows his wife will be against it, he finds he cannot refuse his daughter. “If time permits,” he says evenly, stepping backwards out of the room.

He catches sight of her small hand waving at them before he shuts the door behind Davos. Together, they walk in silence back to his solar.

“She’s a good one,” Davos says, a small laugh to his tone. “Already knows more words than me.” He laughs heartily at this, covering up the distance into the solar. Out the window, the storm is still raging on, pounding away at the stone walls surrounding the keep. Davos sinks into his seat across from Stannis and gives him a hard look. “You’d have her marry one of my sons?”

“Should no other lord accept my offers, yes,” Stannis says. “They can squire for me, learn the ways of the keep, train to inherit these lands, or watch over yours.”

“Shireen can have a better match,” Davos says firmly. He shakes his head, looking down at his lap. “You’ll have no need of me.”

Stannis frowns, looking directly at Davos. “Perhaps, but should the need arise…”

“My son would be honored to wed such a lady of such noble birth,” Davos confirms with a small nod.

Davos ends up at Storm’s End for the new few days as the rain falls harder around them. Even he is not foolish enough to sail through waters fit for suicide, and he enjoys his time with the Baratheons in the keep. Selyse is less than pleased about it, but Shireen is ecstatic. She drags him from room to room, forcing him to play games with her. Davos begins to feel her loss of company as much as Stannis and resolves to send one of his sons off as soon as her can. She is a bright child, eager to learn and be taught, and far more eager to teach. She fills the hallways with her chatter, providing clear warning for the keep’s occupants to scatter before her arrival. When the storm finally clears, Shireen is sad to see him go, and Davos promises to return soon.

Within the next week, a raven arrives from Starfall, stating quite clearly and respectfully that they will decline to give away Edric’s hand before he can ride. Stannis is peeved at their response. It is too vague, too sensitive, when he knows they have other motives for declining his daughter’s hand.

Selyse responds haughtily to the news, claiming that Shireen would never do well as a Lady of Starfall when she is made for the Stormlands. Though Selyse shows no concern for her daughter’s fate or her husband’s actions, Stannis’s worry grows greater as no word comes from Winterfell.

Another moon passes before a raven arrives with the Stark seal on it. Stannis receives the note from his maester at midday, and he stows it into his doublet. He has much to do this day, and he cannot allow worrying for his daughter to outweigh his current responsibilities as lord. It isn’t until late evening when Stannis finally breaks the seal by candlelight. Selyse sits impatiently across the chambers, one of her legs shaking incessantly.

“And what does honorable Eddard Stark have to say about our daughter?” she asks, swirling a glass of wine in one hand. Stannis spares her a brief glance before looking back to the message. There are two pieces of parchment sealed in the message, and Stannis reads both over three times before he responds.

“He regrets to inform us that he means for his eldest to take a northern wife,” Stannis says evenly. “So Shireen will not inherit Winterfell.”

“Of course,” Selyse says. “Just a reason to keep her away from the North…”

“However.” Stannis raises his voice to speak over her rambling. “He has two other sons. And he has agreed to a marriage for our daughter.”

“He has?” Selyse sits up quickly, nearly spilling her drink. She places it down on the table and rushes to Stannis’s side, reading over the letters. “Courtesies… courtesies… Eddard Stark certainly knows how to waste ink… Oh!”

“The matter is settled,” Stannis says. He stands and begins preparing for bed, thinking that he will pen his response on the morrow. “Our daughter will become a Stark.”

“Eddard would have her stay is Winterfell?” Selyse questions, still reading over the papers.

“Should Shireen inherit Storm’s End, it would do well for her to have seen other parts of the realm,” Stannis explains. “She will get to know her betrothed. She will have time to learn for herself while she is there and meet her good-family. It will be fine.”

“Then… their marriage?” Selyse questions, crossing her arms to square off against her husband.

Stannis sighs, sitting down and pouring a drink for himself. “Since she of is expected to inherit Storm’s End and Winterfell would go to the eldest, it is not of utmost importance,” Stannis says slowly. “Shireen will go North when she is old enough to understand. She will spend a number of years there until she knows her betrothed. And then, they will return South to marry. After which, Eddard and I will arrange which keep the two will run.”

Selyse huffs, returning to the bed and settling under the sheets. “You and Eddard have certainly come to an agreement quickly.”

“It was quite a long letter,” Stannis says. “And important for our daughter.”

“What if he doesn’t treat her well?”

“Eddard Stark is an honorable man.” Stannis blows out the candle, leaving them in darkness. “Surely, any son of his will be just as admirable.”

 

 

Packing up her things, Shireen hurries about her room, folding up her dresses into her few cases. She was warned not to take much, but she also doesn’t have much. Her father had a new dress made for her in the Baratheon colors, claiming that she would be representing her house during her stay in the North. Shireen was largely up to the task, practicing her curtsies and manners and greetings and dances at every opportunity. She would be the face of House Baratheon, and she would show them the greatness of her house.

For the past few years, she has been told of this happening. She is betrothed to a Stark of Winterfell. All her life, she had heard stories of Eddard Stark, and she is eager to go North and meet her good-father-to-be. She smiles at the thought. Her father has given her all the information she’s asked for regarding her engagement, her travels to come, and what she’s expected to do. Clasping her cloak over her shoulders, Shireen pulls on her gloves and drags her last trunk outside.

Immediately, one of the household guards greets her, though he recoils from her face. Shireen tries not to scoff as she brushes past him. Quickly, she heads out to the yard where her father awaits her. It has yet to snow in Storm’s End, but the seasons have been declared to be changing from the Citadel. Shireen knows that Winterfell will be colder than she was ever used to in the South, and she’s dressed and packed accordingly.

“It’ll be a fortnight until you see snow,” Stannis tells her, overseeing her luggage being packed into the carriage. A small company of guards was going with her, as no other people had agreed to take the journey. Even so, neither of them would be staying in Winterfell for long after her arrival.

“I prefer to be prepared, Father,” Shireen says evenly. She looks over the company readying themselves to leave. “Winterfell will be cold, with blizzards and snow. Preparing for anything less would be… inappropriate.”

“Very well,” Stannis says brusquely, turning to face her. Though she is only thirteen years old, she is tall for her age, and Stannis knows that she will grow even further and be a great lady to whatever keep she holds. Still, the grey pockmarks cover half her face, though she holds herself with confidence now. “You are ready for this journey?”

Shireen nods. “We’ve been over this a thousand times, Father,” she tells him. “I know everything. I’ll be fine.”

Stannis gives her a hard look, he nods. “You have the letter I’ve prepared for Lord Stark?” he asks.

Sighing, Shireen rolls her eyes and paces through the snow. “Yes, I do,” she tells him. “It’s packed up with my things. I’ll retrieve it just before we reach the gates, and I’ll present it to Lord Stark just after I introduce myself.”

“Very well.” Stannis turns back to his daughter. She gives him a smile, opening her arms just slightly for a hug. Stannis complies, giving his daughter the small show of affection he can afford.

“I’ll write to you,” Shireen tells him, stepping back from the hug. “And I’ll let you know all about it.”

“You’ll be sure to tell me if your betrothed is a good man,” Stannis says softly. “I’ll not have you married to someone unworthy of you.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Shireen calls, stepping up on a block to mount her horse. “I’m curious myself to find out all there is to know about Bran Stark.”


	2. The Meeting of Wolves

The North turns out to be far more ruthless than Shireen expected. While winter had only just been confirmed in the South, it seems to have never left the North. The Baratheon company has been delayed several weeks on their journey, necessitating the use of inns and keeps to keep out of blizzards and snowstorms that rage for days. Some men remark that they made a poor choice in travelling by land, claiming that the sea would have been safer. Shireen tried to tell them otherwise, that she had word from Ser Davos that the storms were just as treacherous at sea. However, the men of her company will hear no word of it as they sit by a fire and drink for some feeling of warmth.

Already, Shireen misses the South. She's spent every night of her travels bundled up under several layers of furs, and she even sleeps under her cloaks on rougher nights. The men with her jape at her expense, speaking to each other how unfortunate she is to end up in Winterfell during the storms. Ignoring them, Shireen forces them to press on the journey through the lighter snows, if only to be away from them sooner.

They end up at Cerwyn for a week while a blizzard passes. Winterfell is a day's ride away, yet Shireen cannot even see the keep for the snow that makes the air seem opaque. She begins to think that she will not reach her destination for another few days, so she settles into her room as best she can. All of her furs are piled in front of the fire, and though she has a bed, she prefers to sleep where she isn't like to freeze to death. Meals have also been brought up to her rooms, and she avoids her father's men as much as she can, though they continue to keep guard outside her door. She has difficulty entertaining herself, digging through her pack and pulling out anything to keep her mind from the snow.

One the ninth day of their stay at Cerwyn, a small knock comes at her door. Though it is too early for her midday meal, she goes over to see who is outside. As usual, one of her guards is facing her.

"Lady Baratheon, may I present Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell," he announces, shivering slightly.

Shireen hides the shock that threatens to cross her face. Instead, she curtsies low. "Lord Stark, I wasn't expecting you."

"And you wouldn't for weeks more, the way southerners ride," he replies, giving her a warm smile. Shireen returns the smile, though she feels like hiding from such a familiar look. "Northerners don't balk for such snows. I would be honored to accompany you on the remainder of your journey."

"It would be a pleasure," Shireen responds, bowing slightly. Though she was fully aware that Lord Stark was aware of her affliction, she is still shocked at his response to it. He has not spared it the smallest of glances and Shireen is thrown. She asks her guard to retrieve her trunks and pack the items she's removed while she prepares for a day of travel.

Bundling up as much as she can without trying to seem too southern, Shireen exits her room and follows Lord Stark down to the stables.

"My son rides with us," he tells her. "Though, I should warn you of his wolf... Your father may have told you of the direwolves, but most aren't truly prepared for them."

"Which son accompanies you, my lord?" Shireen asks, unable to stop the bubble of curiosity she has to finally meet her betrothed.

She hears his huff of air and knows he wears a smile when he says, "My eldest, Robb. Though, I believe Bran looks forward to meeting you, as well."

Shireen feels her face burn at such a casual remark, and she suddenly feels awkward, as if she should not be thinking of her betrothed when they aren't to be wed for years. As such, she is thankful for the chill of the stables when they reach their destination. A few Baratheon men have braved the cold to secure her trunks away, and a young man with reddish-brown hair looks on, helping them when he can. It takes Shireen longer than she thought it would to locate his direwolf. While she always considered herself to be a courageous and curious person, she still takes a small step back from the massive beast. Automatically, she feels like she's done something wrong when the piercing yellow eyes narrow at her, and she is positive she can see teeth poking out from the smoky pelt.

"Down, Grey Wind," Robb says, almost dismissively. He clearly seems to be in control of his direwolf, as if this is a common occurrence. The thought does nothing to put Shireen at ease. She still feels the stare of the direwolf as much as she feels the stares of people in her father's court. However, where people would make rude comments about her greyscale, the direwolf seems to consider her its prey. It knows that she doesn't belong in the North, and she's tempted to agree with it.

"Robb, this is Lady Shireen Baratheon," Lord Stark announces. Shireen feels the weight of his hand on her shoulder.

Robb turns at that, sweeping into a low bow. On his way up, their eyes meet, but Robb's are quickly drawn to her greyscale like crows to carrion. Robb Stark is easily the most handsome man she's ever seen. He carries himself as if he were already a lord, and his hair is neatly combed, making all his auburn curls fall perfectly on his head. Were it not for his staring, she'd have been enchanted by him. It takes him a moment to look elsewhere. "My lady," he says hurriedly. "Excuse my direwolf, he doesn't take well to others."

"Of course," Shireen replies. She ignores his refusal to meet her gaze again and likens him to be just like every other lord she's met. While she had been wishing for Bran to be just like his brother, she now hopes he'll have one drastically different trait. Keeping her courtesies at the forefront on her mind, Shireen follows Lord Stark's instructions for the ride, sharing a seat with him atop his horse. She is entirely unused to the familiarity he has toward her, as he is so wildly different from her father's demeanor, yet she enjoys her time with him on the way.

Lord Stark points out things to her as they go, most of which she cannot see through the flurries of snow. She can scarcely make out Robb's direwolf bounding ahead of them and leading the way. Still, she listens and learns that there is a wolfswood nearby, gates surrounding Winterfell, a small town that they're passing through, and the keep itself.

Shireen is quickly ushered inside by Robb as Lord Stark hands of the reins of the horses to a stable hand. Immediately, Shireen feels warmer. The stone walls of the castle remind her of home, though she is currently mostly thankful for protection from the storms that are sure to come. She strips off her gloves, rubbing her hands together and trying to give herself something to do.

"Please forgive my family for not greeting you properly," Lord Stark says, entering the room behind her. He's followed by a few men that he waves off quickly. Shireen watches as Robb walks over to hear them out. She turns back to Lord Stark, who now has an older woman at his side. "This is Septa Mordane. She'll escort you to your rooms and have a bath drawn for you while I have my men bring up your things. We've had a room prepared for you."

"Thank you, Lord Stark," Shireen responds, giving him another low curtsy. Again, she is shocked at his warm smile in her direction, and she sheepishly returns it.

“I shall send for my family to join us for dinner,” Ned tells her. “I’m sure they’ll be excited to meet you.” He gives her a low bow before following his son.

Shireen turns to Septa Mordane, who spares her greyscale a quick glance before leading her through the keep. On the way to her chambers, Septa Mordane points out all the locations of the keep they pass, generally telling her where hallways lead and the layout of the keep. Shireen listens carefully, intent on learning her way around quickly and becoming an unquestioned part of the household. Shireen takes a quick look around her room when she gets there, seeing that a bath has already been drawn for her, and the swirling curls of steam that come off the surface look inviting and tempting. Around the room, tapestries are hung, covering every surface and keeping the stone invisible. Shireen suspects that it was to keep the warmth in for her southern blood.

“Have you handmaidens, my lady?” Septa Mordane asks, walking into the room and locating the bathing supplies for her.

Stepping forward, Shireen takes the clean sheets from her. “No, but I can manage on my own just fine, thank you.” She tries not to sound curt, as if she’s not used to the isolation, though she is. She doesn’t want pity, but she also doesn’t want to appear too aloof. Septa Mordane takes the cue, bowing out of the room and shutting the down behind her. 

Quickly, Shireen checks the lock on the door before pulling at the ties of her clothes. Though the ride was cold and the weather outside is still freezing, her room is overly warm from the bath, and Shireen is eager to let the heat fill her and be clean again. She pulls up her hair at the last minute, twisting it into a knot away from her neck. Though she would gladly welcome the heat, she doesn’t wish for her hair to freeze before she meets the Stark family. After pulling off her smallclothes, Shireen steps into the tub slowly, not wanting to splash and waste any of the deliciously warm water. The heat of it fills her, soothing the gooseflesh on her skin. Shireen sinks as far as she dares into the water. She is glad to be warm again after so long on the road, after the blizzards and storms that plagued her journey. It is an alluring thought to be so warm again that Shireen allows herself to drift of slightly, dizzied by the warmth surrounding it.

It is only after she comes to in a now-lukewarm bath that Shireen begins the process of scrubbing her skin, soaping over herself to make herself presentable for dinner that night. When she is finally clean and smelling of soaps, she steps out of the bath. Immediately, she wants to return to the water, despite how much it’s cooled. The air is sharp with cold, and though it feels clean in her lungs, it also feels dangerous. 

Shireen breathes in a deep breath before seeking out her trunks and selecting a nice dress for dinner. The event is far too casual for her to don her Baratheon colors, so she fits herself into a blue gown, knowing that it makes her eyes brighter, having been told so by Devan Seaworth so often in her youth. Shireen smiles at the thought, wondering what he was up to. While she had never dared to carry a torch for him, he and Edric Storm were her only companions growing up, and she missed them dearly now that she was in the treacherous lands of the North. Carefully, Shireen laces up her dress, feeling that the collar is far too low for the North. She needs to have her dresses modified should she survive here. Pulling on her boots, Shireen does her best to braid her hair back, though the process is slow and results in many tangles. Combing it out, Shireen decides to seek out help instead of ruining her hair further.

Sneaking through the castle, Shireen takes careful notice of her path, making sure that she can find her way back if she gets lost. The great stone walls of the castle are far too consistent to rely on as a reference, and Shireen recites the directions she has taken so far to get away from her rooms. Her steps are quiet and measured in the silent hallways, and Shireen takes a few steps backwards to see the way she came before she rounds another corner. Her last step backward causes her to crash into something, a large, firm body coming in the opposite direction.

“Oh, forgive me,” she says quickly, stepping away and sweeping into a curtsy. She glances up to see a confused boy who looks exactly as Lord Stark must have looked in his younger days. Shireen’s breath catches, and the boy quickly takes a step away from her.

“My lady,” he says, bowing before her. His face is flushed red, and Shireen wants to guess at his name but fears offending him. He clears his throat loudly, looking around and avoiding her gaze. “My sincerest apologies… I will watch my step carefully.”

“I—It is of no concern,” Shireen says, making him pause in steps that would surely lead him away from her. “I’ve only just come to the keep and don’t know my way.”

“Oh, of course, Lady Baratheon,” he replies.

Shireen feels her own face redden. “Please, call me Shireen,” she tells him. “If I’m to live here, I expect no formalities from my family-to-be.”

If possible, the boy’s face turns even redder. “I—” he cuts himself off, glancing down both hallways. Then, he bows deeply before her. “Jon Snow,” he says clearly.

“Can I call you Jon?” Shireen asks.

He slowly stands up straight, his face still red as a tomato. “Of course, my lady,” he says.

Though Shireen is tempted to correct him again, she is overly thankful that he has yet to stare at her greyscale. Every time he looks at her, he looks directly in her eyes, and Shireen will not push away company that does not judge her. “Could you perhaps take me to Lady Stark, Jon?” Shireen asks. “I’ve need of her assistance.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—” he rushes out quickly. “I—forgive me, my lady. I must be off.”

Shireen watches as Jon runs off, moving through the halls quickly. She feels a fool for asking; surely Jon Snow didn’t get on well with the Lady Stark, to ask such of him was in poor taste. Though, she doesn’t know who else Jon would know to help her, she still reminds herself to watch her tongue when speaking to the Starks.

Taking a deep breath, Shireen makes her way through the halls, trying to step surely though she has no idea where she’s going. She wanders around for an indeterminate time before she spies a grey tail whipping quickly around the corner. Remembering the direwolves, Shireen freezes in her tracks. Though she has convinced herself that she is brave and strong, she has no wish to cross paths with a direwolf without a Stark present.

She strains her ears to determine the distance between herself and the direwolf. The small, gentle steps of the wolf grow further away before they start getting louder. Stepping away Shireen turns to make her way back to her room. Soon, louder, heavier footfalls come, and Shireen recognizes the sound of someone walking.

“Lady Shireen!” someone calls.

Turning on a step, Shireen turns to see Robb accompanied by Grey Wind. He no longer stares at her greyscale, making to bow before her instead. Shireen mirrors him with a curtsy.

“Jon told me you sought my mother,” he says. “I can take you. We’ll be having dinner shortly.”

Shireen feels her face go red as she remembers her blunder. “I didn’t mean to offend,” she starts quickly.

To her surprise, Robb laughs. “None was taken, my lady,” he tells her, offering his arm. “We didn’t expect you to arrive without handmaidens to call for us. I’ll make certain that you have someone to assist you.”

“Thank you,” Shireen mumbles out. She slowly places a hand in the crook of his elbow, stepping near his side. “Though, I’ve been without handmaidens for all my life. I’ll not be used to it.”

“No?” Robb questions. He gives her a grin. “Arya will be jealous.”

Shireen quickly grows comfortable next to Robb. Regardless of her initial meeting with him, she’s willing to look past his behaviors when he so easily speaks to her as if he’s known her for years. They walk easily together, his direwolf leading the way. Shireen watches the gait of the direwolf, seeing the even roll of his shoulder blades and the swish of his tail just above the floor. She marvels at how large his paws are, saying so to Robb.

He laughs, calling for his wolf to stop. Grey Wind obeys, turning toward them and sitting down. “You should have seen them as puppies,” he tells her, kneeling down and holding out a hand to the direwolf. Grey Wind sniffs at his hand before placing a massive paw over his palm. “Nearly dwarfed by their paws… We expect them to grow bigger yet.”

Shireen watches him affectionately stroke the smoky grey pelt of his direwolf. She smiles at them, thinking of a young boy with a puppy. She takes a tiny step forward and Grey Wind’s yellow eyes shoot over to her. “I’ve yet to see any others,” she says softly.

Robb glances over to her. “Well, this is Grey Wind,” he says. “Give him your hand. He needs to learn your scent if you’re to be here.”

Tentatively, Shireen stretches out a hand to the direwolf. She makes herself as still as possible, waiting with bated breath to allow the direwolf to make the first move. Slowly, the direwolf turns to her, extending his long snout to her hand. She feels his warm breath on her palm, but it’s gone just as quickly when Grey Wind turns to continue down the hall.

“I’m afraid they’ve yet to take well to anyone but their owners,” Robb tell her, watching his direwolf go. “They are six: Grey Wind, Ghost, Lady, Nymeria, Summer, and Shaggydog. We watch over them and train them. Our kennelmaster tried to tame them once,” he laughs, “After the first few bites, he gave up.”

“One for all the Stark children?” Shireen asks. Robb beckons her forward, and she follows.

“And Jon,” he says quickly. Ahead of them, Grey Wind sits beside a door. Robb pats his head gently and sends him off. “My lady mother’s chambers.”

Shireen swallows a small lump in her throat as he opens the door slowly. Robb gives her a comforting smile before leading her in. The warmth of the room hits her immediately, and Shireen relaxes, taking a deep breath before looking around the room. They are in Lady Catelyn’s solar, and Shireen is surprised at the number of redheads in the room. Ned Stark stands from the head of the table, all Stark look: brown hair and grey eyes. Jon looked just like him, and there is only another girl who resembles him. Lady Catelyn, Shireen recalls, is a Tully, and she looks the part with red hair and blue eyes. At her side is a girl just younger than Robb, and she has exactly the same look as her mother. Robb walks over to join them, and despite his slightly darker hair, he definitely fits the family. Lastly, she spies the youngest of the party, a boy just younger than herself that resembles Robb: he has the same dark red hair, though his is straighter. He looks slightly miffed at being here, and he gives her a fleeting smile before he looks away.

With a jolt, Shireen realizes that he must be Bran, and she has just seen the boy who she is to marry when he becomes a man. Holding herself straight, she gives them a low curtsy. All words are lost to her, and she is speechless. Shutting her eyes, she begs for words to come so she doesn’t seem rude. However, Lady Stark saves her. She walks over quickly and pulls her into a hug.

Just like her husband, Lady Catelyn pays no attention to her greyscale. She’s full of warm smiles and comforting gestures and touches. Shireen is taken aback by this behavior, having always been held at an arm’s length by her own mother. She wonders if it is the Northern customs that make them so inviting, and she tells herself that it must be so, that her own mother would have done the same for her had they lived in the North.

“Catelyn Stark,” she greets, moving around. She starts on introductions about the room. “You’ve already met my husband Ned and my eldest Robb… This is Sansa, who is happy to have you joining her lessons.”

Sansa turns out to be the miniature of her mother. Shireen gives Sansa a warm smile that the girl returns. Sansa doesn’t stare blatantly at her greyscale, but her eyes continuously flick over to it. Catelyn moves her over her other daughter: the one who looks like Ned.

“This is Arya,” Catelyn says. “She’s your age.”

Arya very obviously stares at her greyscale, furrowing her brow as she examines her. “What happened to your face?” she blurts out, earning herself a shove from her sister. “What?”

“You dolt!” Sansa reprimands softly, pulling her away and muttering to her in hushed tones.

Catelyn lets out a resigned sigh, leading Shireen over to Bran. “And this is Bran, your betrothed, and the last of my children present,” Catelyn says.

Bran spares her the briefest of glances before bowing. He is also looking at her greyscale, and Shireen returns a curtsy, feeling that Bran likely shares a mind with Arya. Distracting herself, Shireen turns to Catelyn. “Um, present?” she questions.

A soft smile crosses Catelyn’s face. “Rickon ran off when we told him about dinner,” she explains, leading Shireen over to a seat. “My youngest, and by far the biggest handful. He listens to no one and runs off with his wolf whenever he sees fit.”

“Oh,” Shireen breathes out. She chances another glance at Bran who quickly busies himself with a fork.

“Rickon listens to Osha,” Arya states loudly. “And Jon sometimes.”

“Arya!” Sansa shoots over, scolding her sister with a look. Everyone at the table is looking at Arya, daring her to say more, except Bran who is holding back laughter.

Arya just shrugs, reaching over for a piece of bread. Shireen thinks better to ask in present company, so she resolves to get to know the youngest Stark sister later, figuring that she’d be willing to answer her questions without reservations. Shireen sets herself to eating, telling everyone about her journey and trying not to sound like she’s complaining about the cold. They respond well to her, asking of her family and Storm’s End, which she is more than happy to answer. She feels a growing camaraderie with them, and she tries to find any sort of common ground with Bran, though he is uninterested in her stories. A few times, his mother nudges him in attempt to get him involved. He only does so at her insistence, dropping out of the conversation as soon as possible and avoiding her entirely.

While Shireen never expected any of the men she meets to enjoy her company, her father had always spoke highly of Eddard Stark, and she had been expecting Bran to show her the same courtesies as his father. Her hopes are now entirely squashed, and she saves some optimism for them growing together in time. After all, she is to spend a few years in Winterfell before any sort of marriage. First meetings need not dictate her entire future with the Starks. 

It is in this manner that dinner finishes up. Shireen minds her courtesies and bows out of the room, not expecting any sort of accompaniment to her room. Sansa, however, seems just as bent on proving herself, so she gives her company along the way. She chatters on about the keep, leading Shireen around aimlessly to show her around. Shireen thanks her for going to such lengths, and she sets herself to learning as much as possible. More than once, Sansa apologizes for her youngest brother’s absence, and Shireen assures her that she doesn’t mind. However, when Sansa starts apologizing for Bran, Shireen lacks the same sentiment.

“I’m certain he’ll make it up to you,” Sansa tells her. “Bran has just been eager to continue training for knighthood, and he wants no distraction from courting you.”

Shireen gives Sansa a small laugh. “I’m no distraction,” she says gently. “Nor as beautiful a lady as yourself.”

Sansa smiles, then, obviously as one accustomed to compliments. She blushes prettily under her red hair, and Shireen expects that she’s needed to practice accepting praise for entirely different reasons. Taking a hold of Shireen’s arm, Sansa steers them in a firm direction. “I can help make it up to you,” she says. “You can meet Lady.”

“Oh, your direwolf?” Shireen asks, remembering the cool, distant nature of Grey Wind.

Nodding, Sansa pulls her down the corridor. “Lady would love to meet you,” she goes on. “I’ve even taught her a few tricks.”

Thinking that training a direwolf was the last thing Shireen wanted to do, she pushes down the discomfort in her stomach to follow Sansa. The redheaded girl leads them to a hallway lined with doors. “My chambers,” she says flippantly, reaching for the door. “And the rest of my siblings in this hall as well… Lady?”

Stepping into the room, Shireen takes caution at the thought of meeting another direwolf. This would only make two of the six that reside in the keep, and she’s already frightened at the thought. Lady looks similar to Grey Wind, with grey fur and yellow eyes, but she is much smaller and is obviously kinder to foreign company. Shireen watches Sansa sit before the direwolf, allowing it to lick at her face. Sansa starts petting her fur before calling Shireen over.

Remembering her encounter with Grey Wind, Shireen puts a hand forward. Lady takes the same caution as Grey Wind, smelling at her hand. Instead of turning from her, the direwolf lowers her head, setting Shireen’s hand atop her head. “Oh,” Shireen breathes out, rubbing a hand over the thick pelt of the direwolf. It’s far thicker than she imagined, and she can feel the heat radiating from Lady. The Stark children definitely have no need for fires whilst they sleep with direwolves for company.

“Lady loves attention,” Sansa says, stroking the direwolf’s fur. She smiles affectionately to the direwolf. Lady circles to sit in front of them, enjoying the attention. 

Shireen sits when invited and Sansa commands Lady around the room, asking her to fetch things and showing off a few tricks for Shireen. The direwolf is oddly responsive to each command, and Shireen thinks them the most intelligent creatures she’s ever met. Shireen watches on. She is jealous of the Starks for having their sigils as pets, and she wonders if she’d be content with a stag or a doe of her own. By the time she leaves Sansa’s room and settles in for sleep, she thinks she’d much rather have a direwolf.

 

 

For the next few weeks, Shireen ends up following Sansa around the keep for the most part. She meets Sansa’s friend Jeyne Poole, and they attend lessons together: reading, writing, and sewing. Arya joins them as well, but she is never as enthused with her lessons. The younger Stark sister spends her lessons stitching slowly and poorly, looking longingly out the window as the blizzard passes over Winterfell. Sansa often tells Shireen to ignore Arya, as Arya refuses to behave like a proper lady. While Shireen doesn’t expect any different from Arya, she is still curious about what she has to offer.

On the first clear day after the storm passes, Shireen takes a seat at Arya’s side. She adjusts her embroidery over her lap, threading a needle carefully. Arya is staring at her greyscale with the same intensity and curiosity as before, her jaw jumping with unasked questions. Shireen expected this, having sat to better show her greyscale to the younger Stark sister.

Clearing her throat causes Arya to jump back, transfixed as she had been. Shireen smiles, not looking up from her sewing. “Greyscale,” she says firmly. “An illness I had as a child. It should have killed me, but my father found a maester to stop it. The affliction is still there, but it no longer harms me, nor is it contagious.”

When Shireen chances a look back to Arya, she finds her jaw dropped in mild shock. Quickly, Arya snatches up her own sewing, stabbing at the fabric with a needle that hasn’t been threaded. “Sorry for staring,” she says quickly.

“I think I’d rather you ask,” Shireen admits. She takes Arya’s needle gently from her, threading it herself and handing it back. “Everyone stares. Very few people ask.”

Arya grins at her. “Does it hurt? What does it feel like? Is it only on your face?”

Laughing, Shireen answers any and all of Arya’s questions for the remainder of their time sewing. Arya accomplishes little, far more intent on learning about Shireen’s greyscale. When they finish, Arya perks up, looking out the window.

“Do you want to go to the snow?” she asks excitedly. “We can go out now.”

Shireen agrees, happy to have won the favor of the girl so quickly. Arya drags them both back to her room first, pulling her straight in and digging out two pairs of thick boots and breeches. She tosses a pair of each at Shireen, oblivious to how Shireen stares at the massive grey direwolf on her bed. Shireen takes a small step forward, earning herself a long, low growl from the direwolf as the golden eyes narrow in her direction.

“You stop that,” Arya says sternly. “We’re going outside.” The direwolf lets out a small bark of agreement, and Arya gives her leave to lick at her hand before she finishes dressing.

Shireen follows suit, putting on the breeches under her dress for extra warmth. The fur-lined boots are far thicker than any of hers are, and Shireen loves the heat of them. When she finishes, Arya gives her a proud grin.

“Nymeria, come,” Arya says. The direwolf doesn’t budge until Arya calls her three more times. “Shireen, this is Nymeria.”

“She’s beautiful,” Shireen says, now used to the paces of first meeting direwolves. Holding out a hand to Nymeria, Shireen waits for the wolf to smell at her hand. Nymeria does so quickly before brushing past her, neither as friendly as Lady nor as distant as Grey Wind. 

Arya leads them to the yard. During the morning, members of the household guard had obviously spent the time shoveling the snow away and clearing the areas of use. Shireen now sees the courtyard and the practice yard. Everything in Winterfell is masked in grey and white, and Shireen smiles at the thought of being surrounded by her house colors growing up. Following Arya and Nymeria, Shireen sneaks around to the shooting yard, where the Stark boys are hard at practice. Arya sits on a fence out of sight, thoroughly captivated at the sight. Shireen sits with her, not disturbing the silence.

The only noises that drift over come from the yard until Arya lets out a sigh. “I want to shoot,” she says softly. “Everyone’s fine with Bran becoming a knight, but I can’t because I have to be a _lady_.”

Arya sounds annoyed at the prospects ahead of her, and Shireen finds herself sympathetic to the other girl’s concern. “Knights don’t only shoot,” Shireen says, thinking back to her lessons. “They train in all sorts of skills. Riding and sword fighting…”

“My mother won’t let me have a sword,” Arya says. Then, she gives Shireen a wicked grin. “But Jon had one made for my nameday.”

“Can you use it?” Shireen asks, somewhat scared of the idea of live steel.

“’Course,” Arya laughs. “You just stick ’em with the pointy end.”

Shireen joins in the laughter, thinking that while Arya wasn’t fully right, she wasn’t wrong either. As they continue to watch the boys practice, Shireen hears the soft crunching of snow behind them. Turning, she finds Nymeria greeting yet another direwolf. This one has a pure white pelt that blends into the snow around him. Shireen stiffens when his red eyes meet hers. Quickly, Shireen tugs on Arya’s sleeve, getting her attention. Arya turns, shrugging when she sees the direwolf.

“That’s just Ghost,” she says, turning back to the practice yard. “You can pet him. He’s nice.”

“Who’s—” Shireen stops herself, but Arya answers anyway.

“Jon’s,” she says. “Robb has Grey Wind. Sansa has Lady. I have Nymeria. Bran has Summer, and Rickon has Shaggydog.”

Reaching out a hand to the direwolf, Shireen recites their names and their owners to herself. Ghost quickly settles in the snow next to Nymeria. He neither welcomes nor rejects Shireen’s company, but she errs on the side of caution and stays away. Shireen has yet to meet two of the direwolves. As it is, she hasn’t even met the youngest Stark child. Shireen sits next to Arya again. “Is Rickon often gone?”

“Pretty much,” Arya says. Her mouth squirms in thought. “Bran and I used to jest about running off to become wildlings, but Rickon’s done that first. He ran away from dinner because Osha wasn’t invited.”

“Who’s Osha?” Shireen asks.

Arya gives her a grin. “A wildling woman,” she tells her. “Mother thought you wouldn’t enjoy her company, nor Jon’s or Theon’s, so they weren’t invited to that dinner. Rickon got mad and ran off with Shaggydog. We found him two days later in the crypts.”

“Does Rickon not like being in the keep?” Shireen asks, curious about the missing Stark child.

Shrugging, Arya turns back to the practice. “I don’t think he cares about that,” she says. “But he doesn’t like us telling him what to do. Mother tries, and he runs every time. Osha’s the only one who can get him to listen. She can at least bring him back when he runs off. Shaggydog doesn’t try to hurt her either.”

Shireen drops the subject there, wondering how Rickon could become such a wild child despite his warm, welcoming parents. Arya seems far more interested in learning from afar, though, so Shireen lets her watch. After a while, she’s struck with an idea. “We could practice, too.”

“What?” Arya turns to her sharply.

“Well, they can’t see us here, and the weapons are right there…” Shireen shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant about it.

Jumping up, Arya pulls her into a hug. “Really?” she asks. “You would?”

“Sure,” Shireen agrees. “Though perhaps we should sneak out sooner.”

With a large smile, Arya begins plotting, detailing out ways for them to leave their lessons and sneak off to practice. Shireen lets her go on, knowing that Arya’s joy would soon come from swordplay than embroidery. When the lessons end, the boys start walking over and Arya shuts up, pretending to have been drawing in the snow instead.

“Spying?” Jon asks, giving her a knowing smile.

Arya sticks her tongue out at him. “We wanted to come outside to.”

Behind Jon, another three boys leave the yard. Though Shireen has never met Rickon, she is certain that he is not in the group. She identifies Robb and Bran, and she assumes the last is the boy Arya mentioned earlier: Theon. Shireen curtsies to them. Robb gives her a smile, and Theon laughs loudly. Bran turns to hit the boy, his face flushed red. He turns back to face her slowly. “Lady Shireen,” he mumbles.

His eyes still flicker constantly to her greyscale, and Shireen silences any response she has. They walk past her, though Jon lingers behind. “If you’re looking to be outside, why not head to the godswood?” he suggests. “I’m sure you could use time for prayer, little sister.”

Arya grins at him, nodding quickly. Once Jon walks away, she turns to Shireen. “Sometimes Jon teaches me in the godswood,” she tells her. “Want to come?”

Shireen feels entirely uncomfortable at the thought. While she was interested in learning about the old gods of the north and seeing the godswood, she had no intention of desecrating the space with swordplay. Instead, she bows away. “You’ll excuse me for declining,” she says. “I think I owe a trip to the sept.”

“Oh,” Arya’s face falls slightly. Then, she shrugs. “Okay then. Next time! Come, Nymeria!”

Arya bounces off, the two direwolves trailing after her. Sighing, Shireen decides to search for the sept herself. She turns and nearly crashes into Bran, who is more than slightly flustered. At his side is a silver direwolf who growls at her. Shireen makes to apologize, stepping away quickly. Bran quiets his wolf with a hand to his pelt.

“Sorry,” he says. “Summer isn’t usually so aggressive.”

“Oh, I—” Shireen quickly pulls off a glove and holds out a hand to Summer, expecting the wolf to warm to her after knowing her scent. Summer doesn’t grace her with any sort of familiarity, taking as short a time with her hand as he can before a small snarl escapes him and he runs off.

Bran’s face is drawn as he steps away. Shireen knows that it isn’t a good sign for her, and she suspects it isn’t a good sign for them, either. Again, she convinces herself that time will make things better, so she swallows the feeling in her throat.

“I was just going to the sept,” she says, breaking the thick silence.

Nodding, Bran falters with his hands. “I could lead you,” he offers slowly.

Shireen accepts and soon regrets it. Bran paces himself more than a foot from her, walking fairly quickly and showing her none of the courtesy that the rest of his family had. They walk in complete silence made all the more tense by his direwolf that walks behind them instead of ahead. Shireen feels that she is being watched and examined by the direwolf, that Summer fears for his master’s safety, and she quickly escapes into the sept where neither will follow her. 

None of her experiences with Bran have been positive. He has yet to show her any kindness. While she still has to hope that they’ll warm up to each other, she can’t help but feel like Bran is entirely uninterested in her. As she finds a spot in the sept, Shireen decides that their awkwardness is due to their betrothal. Surely, his family has accepted her regardless of her faults because of her position, but Bran feels uncomfortable knowing her when it’s been decided that they will marry. Shireen prays for hope, for optimism, for a happy ending, for a husband who truly loves her, and she hopes that she’ll not have to struggle on the way. 

Unfortunately, her gods seem to be testing her, driving her to near madness during her stay in Winterfell. For months, Shireen steps away from Bran, getting closer to his sisters instead. Even Robb treats her like a younger sister, and she often partakes in japes with Theon and Jon as well. Everyone of Stark family that she’s met has fully accepted her role in their household. They all treat her kindly and are no longer concerned with her greyscale, and Shireen is honored to have been accepted by them so fully. Even her concern over the unknown youngest Stark is gone, for Shireen accepts that it’s largely normal for him to be missing for so long.

However, Bran does nothing to follow suit of his family. He often leaves room soon after she enters, making excuses that usually have to do with his direwolf who is not fond of her. Shireen does her best not to be bothered by it, instead just throwing herself into her daily routine. She’s written to her father once and only to let him know of her safe journey north. In the letter, she specifically stated that she was waiting on making any sort of judgement on the Starks, knowing that the few meals they shared weren’t enough to go on, particularly where her betrothed was concerned. She still seeks to give him the benefit of doubt, but she is given more reason to become worried several moons into her stay.

Lord Stark has requested the entire family gather in the hall to greet guests. He is taking wards at Winterfell as a favor to one of his bannermen, and so Shireen joins the Stark family in the hall and takes a spot next to Arya as they await the company.

“They’re coming from Greywater Watch,” Arya hisses under her breath. Shireen has often told Arya how little she knows of the North, and the two sisters have found ways of communicating necessary information to her. “Old Nan called them frogeaters.”

“Arya, it isn’t nice to spread rumors,” Robb chastised, walking by. “We should be thankful that Howland Reed has served us so well.”

Smiling and nodding, Arya waited for Robb to finish passing before hissing out another hushed _‘frogeaters.’_

“Crannogmen,” Bran corrects, moving to stand on Arya’s other side.

“They still eat their sigil,” Arya mutters, trying to stand straight.

Shireen hears Bran let out a large huff of air. “Their sigil is a lizard-lion, and they _rode_ them. Just as you’re not expected to eat Nymeria and Lady Shireen isn’t expected to eat a stag.”

With a quick glance, Shireen finds Bran on Arya’s other side. It is the most he has acknowledged her presence in months, and she wonders if he realizes how distant he has been. Bran isn’t looking at her, though. He stares straight ahead, hands gently clasped before him, with his back straight. Sighing, Shireen resumes her position as the wards of House Reed enter the hall. There’s to be a small feast in their honor, and Shireen has dressed for it, wearing one of her gold gowns with black embellishments, hoping it is an adequate representation of her house.

Shireen is soon introduced to Meera and Jojen Reed, the new wards of Winterfell. They are both short and slim with dark green eyes. Shireen puts on a smile, though they both give her greyscale lingering looks. Avoiding the coming conversation and introductions about the keep, Shireen follows Sansa around until the feast. Luckily, she and Jeyne Poole have decided against showing Meera around as a lady.

“She had a spear,” Jeyne whispers once they’re out of the hall. “ _A spear!_ Oh, I doubt she could ever be a lady…”

“Jeyne, we mustn’t be quick to judge,” Sansa says gently. The girls share a giggle as they leave the hall, though Shireen becomes distracted with the sight out of the window.

Down in the yard, a few of the Starks have taken to showing the Reeds around, obviously taking advantage of the break in weather to show them the grounds. Bran is very enthusiastically walking around the snow, Summer at his side. Shireen watches the introductions of the Reeds to his direwolf. Summer was much kinder to the Reeds than he was to her, going so far as to lick their hands and allow them to pet him. With a heavy feeling in her stomach and a sour taste in her mouth, Shireen leaves to her chambers. She’d not leave for the remainder of the day. There is no reason to. She’s given Bran several opportunities to show her some sort of acknowledgement, but other than his comment about eating her sigil, he’s done nothing. With a firm resolve, Shireen heads down to the sept, determined to pray for strength and confidence for the remainder of her stay. She also prays to befriend a direwolf, hoping that she’d be able to show Bran that she wouldn’t balk before Summer.

On her way out of the sept, Shireen feels as if she is being watched. She tries to ignore the sensation until it intensifies. Deep in her gut, she knows that the knot of nerves is not from being watched. No, it’s because she’s being hunted. Shireen freezes in her tracks, taking in a shaky breath of the cold air. She tightens her hands into fists, refusing to submit now. She is sure that a direwolf is behind her, and she will not back away from it.

Turning sharply, Shireen finds herself closer than she’d like to a direwolf she doesn’t recognize. Its pelt is pure black, and its green eyes look menacing, like they’re trying to see _through_ her. Swallowing hard, Shireen holds tight to her promise to herself. She shakes off a glove, preparing herself to raise a hand to the direwolf when he steps forward. Desperately, Shireen tries to remember its name. The direwolf cocks his head to the side, moving closer to her. Feebly putting her hands in front of her chest, Shireen thinks to step away, but she’s locked under the gaze of the massive beast before her. There’s a kindness in the green eyes that she’s unused to, some distant part of her brain can sense it there, and she raises a hand a bit higher, prompting the direwolf to close the distance of them. His snout is firmly in her face now, and Shireen knows they are both holding their breaths.

She shuts her eyes tight; awaiting her doom for surely no encounter with an unknown direwolf would end well. A minute passes that feels like an hour, and then Shireen feels the heat of the direwolf’s breath in her face. It’s oddly comforting to feel out in the snow, and Shireen relaxes some, prepared to befriend this direwolf. She reaches up a hand to stroke his snout, but she freezes when his warm, wet tongue drags over her greyscale.

Opening her eyes from the pure shock of it, Shireen sees the direwolf circle in the snow, moving just slightly away from her. His jaw hangs open, revealing sharp teeth that would look dangerous if his tongue wasn’t hanging out of his mouth. Shireen isn’t sure how to respond, waiting for something to happen. The direwolf is bent on that, barking at her and jumping down low in the snow, his tail flicking loose powder in all directions. Dropping her hands, Shireen takes a small step forward and the direwolf barks again, much more insistent this time. Finally, Shireen understands his meaning. He wants to play.

Grinning, Shireen searches for some sort of toy, thinking that she could use her glove if necessary. The direwolf is impatient, though, circling around her and threatening to knock her over, large as he is. Shireen has a hard time keeping her balance with the direwolf. “Sit!” she calls out, not expecting any response.

The direwolf cocks his head at her, one his ears bending down. Then, he sits in the snow. A wide smile spreads across her face. A though occurs to her. “Come!” Shireen says. Belatedly, she realizes that it was far too enthusiastic, as the direwolf takes a bound in her direction. His paws easily hit her shoulders, knocking her down in the snow and he barks again. 

Shireen tries to think of a command to remove the direwolf, when she hears someone call, “Ghost!” Then, there’s the small sound of fabric ripping as the direwolf is thrown off her. Another direwolf has crashed into hers, and the two go tumbling in the snow a distance away. She sits up with difficulty, looking over to see the white and black direwolves fighting each other, both snarling and biting. Then, someone kneels at her side, holding out a hand to her. “Shireen! Are you okay?”

Turning, Shireen finds Jon at her side. She takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet. Jon steps away quickly, pulling off his cloak to offer her. “I’m fine,” she tells him. She brushes down her skirts, finding the few tears from the direwolf’s claws.

Jon leads her back to the keep, rushing forward when he finds Robb. “Find Rickon,” he hisses. “Shaggydog nearly attacked this poor girl.”

“No, he didn’t—I only just—” Shireen feebly tries to explain that no harm was meant, but the right words refuse to come. She still feels flushed form the encounter, her heart racing, and she is sure that she looks panicked in spite of what she feels. Taking in a sharp breath, Shireen starts again, determined to argue on behalf of the direwolf—Shaggydog, Jon called him.

Robb sighs, placing his hands on Shireen’s shoulders. “Forgive us, Lady Shireen,” he says calmly. He turns to Jon. “Rickon has locked himself in another tower. I’ll have Osha find him.”

“And Shaggydog?” Jon asks. “He’s let him loose again.”

“I’ll have Grey Wind see to him,” Robb says curtly. He bows to Shireen, before walking quickly back out onto the grounds.

Though Shireen is encouraged to wash and clean so she can enjoy the feast that night, she is distracted by thoughts of the direwolf. Shaggydog had appeared just as wild as everyone made him out to be, but he really just wanted to play. Shireen wishes for a chance to meet him again, hoping that they could find an understanding with each other.

Shireen lets herself become distracted with thoughts of playing with direwolves for the rest of the night, and it begins to span the next few months. She continues to seek out company with Bran, but he ignores her at every opportunity. He spends his time training, in lessons, or with the Reeds. Shireen catches him several times in their company when she sneaks away from lessons with Arya to practice wielding blades with the young Stark girl. They are poor at teaching themselves, but they’ve both improved greatly. However, all of Shireen’s accomplishments involving direwolves and blades don’t make her feel any better about her failure of a relationship with Bran.

She considers writing to her father to tell him, but in the end she doesn’t. As a proper lady of House Baratheon, Shireen is determined to do her duty in any capacity. However, regardless of the effort she’s willing to put into her marriage, she still hopes for something that will make Bran a more willing friend. She sneaks off after dinner one night to seek an audience with Lord Stark, hoping to tell him her fears and that he will speak to his son about the issues. Surely, even he has noticed the distance between the two. Just outside Lord Stark’s solar, Shireen raises a hand but stops herself from knocking when she hears voices from inside. Immediately, she makes to leave, having learned it rude to eavesdrop. A few steps away, she hears her name, and Shireen finds she cannot help herself.

“Lady Shireen Baratheon doesn’t deign herself to speak to me either!” Shireen closes her eyes tight. Though she has spent little time in his company, she easily recognizes Bran’s voice. “You expect me to marry her still? What if all our children end up with greyscale like her?”

“ _Bran!_ ” comes Catelyn’s shill voice.

There’s a small time where a muted voice speaks. Shireen cannot make out the words, but she hears the deep, low drawl of it. Then, Bran speaks up again. “ _Your_ vow. I promised nothing. I don’t want her.”

Swallowing thickly, Shireen runs from the corridor. Every effort she had planned to put into talking to Bran seems a waste now. Never had he planned on seeing through his marriage to her, and she had harbored hopes of a good husband. Surely, Eddard Stark would trust his son to take the high ground, marry her anyway, and do his duty in spite of hating her. She would be forced into it, if only on her word as a Baratheon. The past year in Winterfell has only pointed to ruin where Bran was involved, and she feels like all her hope was for nothing. Mayhaps she’d just be sent back to Storm’s End and pawned to the highest bidder, for surely, even Bran would not want to be Lord of the Stormlands if her hand was attached to it.

Running blindly through the castle, Shireen seeks an exit. She needs to be away from this, from the castle that has cursed her, despite the kindness of most of the family there. She pushes open the door the smallest amount, slipping into the cold darkness outside and shutting the door behind her. Quickly deciding against hiding in the sept, she makes for the godswood instead. Everyone will search the sept for her, and she does not want to be found. Running through the light snowfall, Shireen moves as quick as she can passing the white trunks of the trees, and only just catching the red of the leaves above her. She moves until she collides with a massive tree at the center of the wood. There’s a face carved into the bark, and Shireen hugs the tree tight. She cries into the bark until she feels dried out entirely.

Gathering herself, Shireen moves around the tree. She isn’t ready to return to the castle, not for a while more. Even though the snow falls around her, she weaves through the trees, trying to find a spot out of the way to rest in. Sometime later, she falls before a nondescript tree, far from the path of the godswood. Resting against the trunk, Shireen looks up to the dark sky and sees the thick grey of the clouds. She knows that she should return to the castle. The godswood cannot provide her the safety that the keep does, but she cannot bare being nearer her fate. Sucking in a sharp breath, Shireen tucks her knees in, wrapping her arms about them and trying to warm herself.

The snow begins to fall faster, and Shireen is numbed by it, no longer concerned with her fate in the cold. She rests down in the snow, prepared to accept her fate when the large black direwolf creeps up to her. Shireen smiles weakly, remembering him. She has spied him following her around the past few moons, and though he left quickly enough, Shireen kept hope that he would return. “Shaggydog,” she calls, sitting up slightly.

As if responding to a command, Shaggydog walks over to her. She is cautious around him still, wondering what his intentions are. The direwolf simply places himself around her, going down on all fours and nudging her with his snout. Shireen isn’t sure what he wants from her, but she wants to sleep. Turning into his coat, Shireen settles against the warmth of the direwolf before dozing off.

Mumbling sounds wake her, and she isn’t sure how much time has passed. She wonders what day it is, before she feels the weight of snow on her. She’s sluggish and dreary in spite of the worry that picks at the back of her brain, but the pull of sleep is greater and she finds herself drifting off again. When she wakes again, she is moving but not of her own accord. She wonders if she sits atop a horse until her hands grip into the fur beneath her and she remembers Shaggydog.

The movements jolt to a stop, and Shireen tries to open her eyes, feeling the chill of the cold under her skin. She reaches out blindly for anything, hoping for something to warm her again. Her hand hits something solid before it falls. There’s some crunching of snow, and she tries to look up again. Before her is Robb, she expects, though he looks much younger. He gives her a curious look before unclasping his cloak and throwing it over her. Shireen means to refuse, but the heat draws her in, making her sleepy again. The pull of sleep hits her again, but not before she registers two hands on her face, tilting her head to look into her eyes. The boy is closer than she expected, looking carefully at her. His eyes narrow, and Shireen realizes that he has to be touching her greyscale, that there is no way around that if he is so close.

“You’re sick,” he says shortly. His voice is gruff, trite despite how curiously he looks at her.

She means to sit up, to ask about him and why he touches her greyscale when she avoids it whenever she can. He moves her back to the safety of the direwolf, though. His hands slide off her face, and she feels the soft pads of his fingers lingering over the greyscale. It is a gentle touch, and Shireen is surprised she can feel it, that she knows he means to show her kindness despite his rough voice. He gives her a smile, and Shireen sees a spark of his wild nature shining through.

“Go, Shaggy,” he says, pushing the direwolf forward.

Shireen can’t remember falling asleep, nor can she remember which time counts, truly. There were a few fleeting memories of consciousness in her memory, and she can’t decide what any of them mean. Her limbs feel heavy, and there is a massive weight in her head that she isn’t used to. Grumbling, she sits up from her pillows. Layers and layers of furs slip off of her, and she sniffles. Somehow, she has returned to her chambers. Her head is pounding and she has difficulty breathing. With a groan, Shireen seeks out a cup of water. One rests on a table beside her bed, and she grabs it, intending to take a deep gulp. However, she forgets her trouble breathing and chokes on the drink, leaning over to clear her throat and she coughs her way free.

Then, her door opens quickly. Lady Catelyn walks to her side quickly, taking away the cup and stroking back her hair. “Oh, you poor girl,” she murmurs, hugging Shireen close. “How do you feel?”

“I-I’m fine,” Shireen says. Her voice is hoarse from lack of use, and she feels like her breaths are scratching at the inside of her throat.

Catelyn gives her an easy smile. “I’ll go fetch you some broth and a maester,” she says. After rearranging the furs over Shireen, Catelyn leaves the room quickly.

The door is only just open, and Shireen looks out, lost as to what day it is. She remembers hearing of Bran’s distaste for her. She fled to the godswood, and Shaggydog found her. Just remembering the name seems to summon him to her room. A black snout pushes open her door, and soon green eyes are looking at her. Shireen gives the direwolf a smile, trying to beckon him in.

“Shaggy!” someone yells sharply. The direwolf backs up quickly, growling low in his throat. With a quick glance at her, the direwolf flees down the hall, and Shireen feels the loss of him. Soon, Sansa enters the room, peeking in slowly before going to sit on her bed. “Sorry for him,” she says, brushing Shireen’s furs smooth. “He’s so wild, and he listens to no one save Rickon. My baby brother doesn’t do much for him, though.”

Shireen nods, unable to speak even though she wants to say something to the contrary. She lets Sansa tell her about what’s happened since her disappearance, telling her the maester’s instructions for her before the maester returns and says the same. Shireen dutifully plays the role of patient, accepting the company of the Starks that come to visit her. Even Bran makes an appearance, with both the Reeds at his side. Awaiting her dismissal from her bed, Shireen eagerly leaves the room when she can.

The keep is quiet when she does, and she finds little appeal in going to her lessons. Wrapping herself in furs, Shireen heads to the library instead, reading all day. A few times, she hears scratches and growls from the other side of the door, but when she goes to investigate, there is no source of the noise.

For weeks this continues as Shireen slowly recovers. A few times, Bran visits her in the library, and, though his visits seem forced she can’t help but be happy that he’s at least trying for her. Shireen takes what she can from him, even though their times together are quiet, she tries to enjoy it. Most curiously, Shireen finds herself anticipating the scratching at the door, hoping that she can catch the direwolf that she’s sure is responsible for it.

She manages this by heading over later than usual one day, and she waits by the door until Shaggydog shows up. He sheepishly walks in her direction, growling at the door when she pushes it open. Shireen raises her eyebrows at the direwolf, tugging her furs tighter around her. “Do you want to come in?” she asks, staring down at him. 

With slow, steady steps, the direwolf enters the library, walking through the stacks. Shireen takes her seat as she’s become used to, close to the fire where she can keep warm. Shaggydog returns to her side soon, curling around her legs. Within the next hour, Shireen finds herself shedding her furs in favor of the direwolf’s warmth. They sit comfortably around each other. Shireen absently strokes his fur and the direwolf dozes off next to her.

After Shireen has read through most of her collected books, she walks back through the stacks returning the books to their proper places. As she wanders, she begins to hear some scuffling of footfalls. Spiked through with curiosity, Shireen follows her ears, trapping the footsteps in a corner of the bookshelves.

“Who’s there?”” she calls out. She steps gently around the bend, careful to keep herself quiet.

Bent over in the corner, Shireen sees a boy not much younger than her. His auburn hair is curly and wild, and he looks like a scared animal as he steps away from her. Shireen takes a small step toward him holding out a hand. He snarls at her, stepping around her and heading back out to the seats.

“Wait!” Shireen calls, feeling a sense of familiarity at seeing him. She catches him trying to move Shaggydog to the door, a seemingly impossible task with how large the direwolf is. Stepping toward him, she gives him a gentle look. “You saved me,” she mumbles out.

The boy sobers at that, turning to give her a hard look. His eyes rake over all of her body, sparing her greyscale the same amount of attention that he gave the rest of her. Then, he points a finger at her face, aiming straight for her greyscale. “You were sick,” he says firmly.

Shireen weakly lifts a hand to her cheek, uncertain if he means to speak of her greyscale or the past few weeks of her illness. She chooses the middle ground. “I was,” she says, “but I’m better now.”

The boy’s hand falls, and he gives her a hard stare. He makes direct eye contact the entire time, and Shireen discovers that that makes her more uncomfortable than people staring at her greyscale. He takes a step forward, cocking his head to the side to get a better look at her. Shireen realizes that he must be Rickon – the Stark that has managed to evade her during her past year at Winterfell. He looks far older than his age, and Shireen wonders how he came to be so unlike his siblings. “It didn’t get me,” he says finally, lifting a hand to show her his palm.

“I—No, I’m not contagious,” she explains. She wonders how much he knows, and she feels like he wouldn’t appreciate her talking down to him. Still, she isn’t sure what to say to him, so she keeps quiet. Walking around the area, Shireen takes a seat in her chair.

Rickon follows her, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her. She finds the gesture endearing, though he is still staring at her eyes with great intensity. “You survived,” he says finally.

“I did,” she tells him. He is a curious creature to watch, and Shireen can’t help but think that he is more animal than his direwolf, calm as Shaggydog is before the fire. Rickon continues to make a slow examination of her, and something about him seems flighty though he won’t stop staring. He shoots a glance over to Shaggydog. “You match.”

“I—” Shireen tries to think through the thought before she responds. Suddenly, she realizes that he means her hair. It is also black like his direwolf. “Yes, we do,” she says. “Do you come to the library often?”

He shakes his head roughly, sending his curls flying. Shireen can tell that he has escaped haircuts for a while. “Don’t like letters,” he mumbles out. His hands are constantly busy, running over his legs and through his hair. 

Shireen starts to think she’s never seen them still until she remembers when he held her face. Her face flushes, and she swallows the thought. “Why are you here then?” she asks gently.

“Hiding,” he says shortly.

Uncertain as to where the conversation should go, Shireen plucks the remaining book from the table, opening it in her lap. “Would you like to read with me?” she offers.

Rickon shakes his head again, and he even moves away from her. She can see that he’s thoroughly repulsed by the thought, and she smiles at his naiveté. Looking through the first few pages, Shireen watches as Rickon gets up and quickly darts over to his direwolf. He gives Shaggydog a feeble push, earning himself a snap of jaws in his direction, so he flees.

Over the next few days, Shireen finds that she now has two sets of eyes watching her: one belonging to the direwolf, the other to his master. Rickon seems bent on removing his direwolf from the library, regardless of how often Shaggydog snaps at him. Shireen laughs amusedly every time he huffs down in failure. Though, after he runs away the first few days, she tries to stop laughing at his attempts.

One day, he simply walks in and sits next to Shaggydog, apparently already realizing that any effort is futile. Shireen reads for as long as she can, watching Rickon act far too familiar with his direwolf.

“You know,” she starts slowly, hoping that she won’t scare him off. “If you’re in here, you may as well read.”

Rickon scowls at her, shaking his head. “Don’t like letters,” he repeats.

Shireen gives him a smile. “But you can learn,” she suggests. Slowly, she scoots down to sit on the floor, making them level. She sets the book down on the table, so Rickon can see it if he looks over. Then, she reads aloud, slowly. In the corner of her eye, she watches him move closer, inching his way over to the book. Shireen moves to turn the page, but Rickon stops her, snagging her hand in his. His grip is firm, but not overly tight. Shireen is shocked at the sensation. Never before has anyone treated her with such familiarity, and she finds Rickon’s lack of boundaries something thrilling despite his frank nature.

“Again,” he says firmly, narrowing his eyes down at the page. He releases her hand quickly, pointing to the start of the page. Rickon looks back to her, and his throat moves with a swallow. “Please,” he adds on quickly, his gaze moving down to his lap.

With a smile, Shireen returns to the top of the page, dragging her finger along the line of words as she reads. Occasionally, Rickon stops her by grabbing her hand. He then moves it back, having her repeat words for him. Sometimes, he even mumbles them under his breath. Shireen smiles at him, encouraging him to press on and learn. He does so slowly, and as frustrated as he seems to get, he still returns to the library the next day to take a seat next to her.


	3. Celebrations and Falls

The comforting crackle of the fire in the library is the only sound in the room. A few books are scattered across the table, and Shireen makes a note to herself to return them to their places before she leaves. Even after she recovers from her illness, she enjoys spending her free time reading in the library. Arya is peeved at this turn of events, often dragging her away to practice their own form of swordplay. Once, Arya caught Rickon in the library, and he didn’t reappear for two weeks. He comes back, though, probably chasing after his direwolf who has taken a liking to Shireen. However, Shireen is thoroughly surprised when Bran joins her in the library one day.

Without saying anything, Bran takes a seat, reaching out for one of the books on the table and flicking through it. Shireen breathes in deeply, glancing over at him before returning to her book. She reads through three more pages when Bran’s book snaps shut loudly. Instead of looking up, Shireen closes her eyes tight, wondering what on earth could have prompted this.

“I need to apologize to you.”

She isn’t expecting that. Slowly, Shireen looks up from her book. Bran slouches in his seat, rubbing his hands over his face. She sees his body visibly deflate when he lets out a long breath.

“Even though, I know _now_ that our parents planned this when we were children,” he starts slowly. She can see him searching for words, and she realizes that he is embarrassed. “I—my dad didn’t tell me until I was old enough to understand. It was when he arranged Robb’s marriage.”

Shireen swallows hard. She knew that Robb Stark was set to marry Dacey Mormont in a few months. Ned Stark has already begun planning the tourney that is to accompany the ceremony—a massive celebration fit for the next Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Shireen had been allowed to send a letter to her parents with their invitation to the wedding, and she is eagerly awaiting their response to see if they’ll attend. Still, she knows that most betrothals don’t occur until the people involved are older, and hers is highly unusual.

Bran finally looks sideways at her, still hunched over his knees. “I wanted to be a knight,” he says. “I wanted to join the Kingsguard, and they can’t take wives, or lands, or titles… I didn’t care about that. I just knew that I wanted to be a knight.” He takes a deep breath, sitting up and leaning back in his seat. Slowly, Shireen closes her book, setting it down and turning to look straight at him. “I got really mad when my dad told me. They didn’t ask me, but they really couldn’t—not when we were so little—but I got really mad about it. I even ran off with Rickon for a while.”

“You did?” Shireen asks, slightly amused at the thought of these two young boys going off to live in the wild.

Nodding, Bran gives her a small smile. “He was already running off back then. I just joined him,” Bran laughs. “We were gone for weeks with Summer and Shaggydog. I think I was nine.”

“What happened?” Shireen asks.

Twisting his mouth, Bran looks away, directly into the fire. “I never figured out how to deal with it,” Bran tells her. His voice is soft, and Shireen knows that this is the ultimate source of their troubles. “I just… I convinced myself that I could still do it. That our betrothal would break and I could be free. I never thought it would actually happen.”

A tangle of nerves builds her in chest. Shireen looks away, clearing her throat loudly. “So when I showed up…?”

“I tried to pretend you didn’t exist,” Bran admits. He looks guilty about it, and Shireen feels horrible for crushing his dreams. She knows what futile hope feels like, and she hates that she contributed in giving it to Bran. “I’m sorry.”

Sighing, Shireen sits back, toying with the skirt of her dress and smoothing it over her knees. “I didn’t realize,” she says at last. “I’m sorry, too.”

Bran laughs at her, throwing his head back. “My lady, you’ve done nothing wrong,” he says.

“My name is Shireen,” she says firmly. “And as my betrothed, I expect you to call me so.”

“Of course,” Bran says evenly. He gives her a weak smile. “I expect we’ll actually be married.”

Shireen pauses, unsure where to go from here. All her life, she had been told the importance of her betrothal and what it meant for her and her family. Still, she is inclined to help Bran if she can. “If you truly do not wish to be wed—”

“On my honor as a Stark, I will marry you,” he says firmly. “I have no qualms regarding taking a wife, other than having a wife. But it would be my pleasure to have your hand.”

Regardless of his words, Shireen can see that he still has some hesitations about their betrothal. However, she knows better to throw even more problems into their future, so she holds her tongue. Looking at Bran, she nods slowly, wondering how this changes their relationship now. She wants to know what their encounters in the halls will be like now, what they’ll speak of at dinners, if he’ll dance with her. Saving all those thoughts for when they come, Shireen pushes the ideas aside for now.

With a heavy sigh, Bran stands. He stretches in his place before turning to her. “Shireen,” he says, giving her a small bow before leaving the room. There is some scuffling outside. Shireen can hear multiple sets of feet moving, but they all drift away. 

It has been nearly three years since she left Storm’s End, and Shireen has come to think of Winterfell as home. Even when Bran was still distant with her, she had a number of comforts with the Stark family and all the household members. It is odd to think that she’ll now have regular interactions with Bran. Sighing, Shireen reaches for her book again. She freezes when she hears footsteps behind her even though she’s positive the door hasn’t opened since Bran left.

Turning in her seat, Shireen finds Rickon walking toward her. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he’s incredibly tall for his age now that he no longer slouches. Shireen watches how he lazily walks around the table and slumps down on the floor. Rickon folds his arms over the table. He shakes his head and burrows into his elbows.

“How long have you been here?” Shireen asks, crossing her arms across her chest.

Rickon looks up from his arms, and his bright eyes travel over her before he shrugs. He collapses onto the table again. He mumbles something into his arms. Shireen _hm_ s at him to get him to repeat himself. Resting his chin over one of his hands, Rickon says, “Bran doesn’t want to marry you.”

Shireen is taken aback, slightly insulted at his implication. “Bran just told me that he will marry me,” she tells him. She quickly changes the topic, not wanting to think of Bran’s demeanor regarding her. “Now, are you here to read?”

“Talking’s enough,” he mumbles out. He leans down further and Shireen suspects that he’ll doze off soon. 

She’s grown used to this behavior from him. For the months that she has been spending in the library, Rickon’s company has been the most constant. He still runs off for days at a time, but he always returns sooner or later. Sometimes, he’ll sit still and let her read to him. Even more rarely, he’ll read himself, but more often than not, he sleeps. Usually he has his direwolf to use as pillow, but he makes use of the table as well.

Though she turns her attention back to her book, Shireen can’t stop herself from switching her gaze to him every few minutes. The arch of his back expands with each of his slow, steady breaths. Because of his position, a few strands of his hair fly away from his face when he breathes. Smiling to herself, Shireen leans across the table to brush away the offending hair. Rickon squirms some under her touch, but he settles back down with a hint of a smile on his face.

 

 

Shireen really shouldn’t be surprised that Bran now speaks to her when they cross paths. Typically, he only gives her a simple greeting. However, every time they have an exchange, she watches him go off and share a laugh with the Reeds. Shireen ignores the knot in her stomach every time it happens, and she tries to continue on her way normally. However, she is very distracted during her lessons, which Arya catches immediately. The younger Stark girl starts giving her signs of early escape, which Shireen agrees to, if only for a distraction.

“Aren’t your lessons good enough without me?” Shireen asks her on the way down to the practice yard. For the last few months, Arya has been taking special dancing lessons. With absolutely no encouragement from Shireen, Arya had told her that it was sword fighting lessons, and that she was training to become a water dancer. They still escape lessons to spy on the men training, and Shireen isn’t entirely sure why.

Arya simply continues racing down the halls, turning over her shoulder and shouting, “Syrio only teaches me water dancing. I want to learn how to shoot, too!”

Following as best she can, Shireen lifts up her skirts to keep up with Arya’s pace. They finally slow outside the door, and Shireen adjusts her dress back into place. Arya doesn’t bother, though her collar is clearly crooked and her hair is starting to fly out of her braid. Even at six-and-ten, Arya has yet to hold herself as a lady. Shireen can’t help but admire her courage.

Arya leads them straight to the armory, affixing Shireen with the proper gear. At the same time, Shireen adjusts Arya’s dress. She ignores her hair, knowing that Arya wouldn’t hold still long enough for it anyway. Then, they retrieve bows. Shireen expects them to sneak off to an unused range to practice on, but Arya has other ideas today. Creeping around the fence of the practice yard, Arya settles between the posts, mostly hidden from view.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t shoot for their target?” Shireen suggests.

Scoffing, Arya nocks an arrow, pointing between the posts. She swears, lowering the bow. “Theon needs to move before I shoot him,” she mutters.

“Arya!” Shireen calls, tugging on her sleeve.

“Yes, Shireen?” Arya asks back, not looking back.

Shireen frowns, stepping forward to peek between the posts. She watches everyone take a shot, seeing that Robb obviously has the best aim of the boys gathered, though Theon and Jon are close seconds. “Shouldn’t we shoot elsewhere?” Shireen hisses out.

“My dear Shireen,” Arya says slowly. “How else will they know that we’re better than them?”

Sighing, Shireen simply waits for Arya to content herself. It takes far longer than she expected. The boys continuously move in front of each other, blocking any shot that Arya could take. Shireen grows bored quickly, sitting in the snow and watching her slivered view of the yard as everyone continues to practice. A few times, Shireen thinks they’re going to be discovered, but the closest crunching of snow turns out to be Rickon joining them late.

“Here to show us how the wildlings shoot?” Theon asks.

Rickon smirks at him. “They’re all better than you, Greyjoy,” he quips back. Shireen watches as he tests the string of his bow a few times, gathering his arrows awkwardly in his hand.

“Best of three?” Robb asks, taking aim. They continue to jest with one another, each taking their allotted three shots. Robb goes first, with his three arrows impressively close to the center. Jon shoots next, approximately nearing Robb’s arrows. Clapping him loudly on the back, Robb gives Jon a congratulatory hug.

“The Watch will be lucky to get you,” he says.

Scoffing, Theon takes his shots, pausing for a long while between them and only just besting Robb. “Would you look at that, Stark?” he muses. “I believe I’ve bested you, unless your little brothers can do better?”

Bran and Rickon share a look. Then, Rickon sweeps his arm out to give Bran leave to shoot. Shireen can see the obvious signs of discomfort on Bran’s face, and he looks nervous as he takes his first shot. While Shireen thinks that he shot well, the other boys laugh at how far from the target he was. He takes the other two quickly and only does marginally better.

“He’s still young,” Robb defends, shoving Theon away to stop his laughter.

As the boys scuffle off slightly, Rickon starts aiming his own bow. At the same time, Arya finally sees a clear opportunity and stands hastily. She nocks her bow as the arguing gets louder. Rickon groans, lowering his bow to look over at them. At that moment, Arya lets her arrow loose, hitting the dead center of the target. Shireen’s mouth drops open in shock, and Arya jumps up. Unfortunately, her arrow has caught the attention of all the boys in the yard.

Jon is staring at the exact spot where they’re hiding, shaking his head though he wears a smile. Theon and Bran look far less pleased. It takes exactly one second before they both go chasing after Arya, yelling at her and asking how she could dare to show them up. Dropping her bow, Arya runs off the opposite way, whistling for help from her direwolf. Shireen watches in amusement as Jon and Robb rush over to break up the impending fight. Leaning against the fence, Shireen simply watches on.

“Here to shoot?”

Jumping at the voice, Shireen turns and ends up face-to-face with Rickon. They’re far closer than she’d deem appropriate, given how he’s leaning over the fence. Quickly, she takes a step back. “I—No,” Shireen says quickly. “Arya wanted to. I just came with her.”

Rickon gives her a knowing smile, walking around the fence and looking her up and down. “You’ve dressed for it,” he notes. “Care to take a shot?”

Shireen feels her face flush red. Stepping away, she makes to leave the yard entirely. Rickon snags her hand, though, pulling her back to the practice range that is blessedly empty. He positions her at one end of the yard before going to pull the arrows from the target. Then, he stands off to the side and gestures for her to shoot.

Feeling foolish, Shireen holds up her bow, trying to stand as Arya did. She struggles a bit with the tension as she pulls back on the string, and her arrow goes flying, missing the target by a long shot. She hears Rickon chuckling behind her. Instead of feeling embarrassed, she becomes angry that he would goad her into shooting and have the gall to make fun of her. Nocking a second arrow, Shireen fires off as fast as possible. This one, too, misses, but she hears it _THUNK_ against something in the distance.

Taking a deep breath, Shireen takes up a third arrow, determined to hit the target this time. However, Rickon stops her from shooting by placing his hand over hers and lowering the bow just slightly. “Easy,” he says, feeling her flinch under his touch. “You need to relax.”

Shireen scoffs, lowering the bow. She tries to cross her arms at him. “Oh, because you’re so good?”

A devilish smirk crosses his face. He takes up his bow, aiming toward the target. Shireen stares at him, daring him to shoot. He glances over to her for a moment before quickly firing off three arrows. All of them are buried in the center of the target. He gives her a big smile. Shireen tries not to roll her eyes, though she isn’t sure that she succeeds. Rickon laughs, beckoning her to draw her bow again.

Slowly, Shireen lifts her bow, readying herself for more of the far-too-familiar touches that Rickon always gives her. He takes her by the shoulders to twist her sideways, holds onto her hands to adjust her grip, and shoves a foot between hers to widen her stance. Gritting her teeth, Shireen takes in a deep breath, hoping that no one returns to the yard. Rickon’s hand lands on her waist just as he says, “Fire.”

Mostly out of shock from the touch, Shireen releases her arrow. It is buried in the center of Rickon’s shots, and Shireen’s mouth drops open. By the time she turns to face Rickon with the scowl he deserves, he’s already stepped away, and she suddenly isn’t sure he was ever there at all. He isn’t even looking at her, though a grin is on his face.

“The lady can shoot,” he observes. With long, careful steps, Rickon walks over to the board and pulls loose her arrow. He walks back and hands the fletching to her. “Your prize, m’lady.”

“My lady,” Shireen corrects, taking the bow. “And proper ladies shouldn’t be shooting anyway.”

“Wildlings shoot,” Rickon tells her. He rounds her slowly, going back to his spot on the fence. Placing an elbow to the wood, he gives her another smirk. “Perhaps you could become a spearwife.”

Shireen frowns, mostly from having never heard the term. “And perhaps you’ll be a lord one day,” she quips back, thinking that a lordship would be the farthest thing from a wildling.

Immediately, she knows she’s hit the mark. Rickon looks disgusted by the very thought, and she is positive that a lordship is the last thing he wants. No. From what she’s seen of the youngest Stark child, his only wish is to be off in the woods: hunting and living off the land. He doesn’t even want a roof over his head. Shireen tries to picture him out in a frosted terrain with no one but Shaggydog by his side. She imagines that he’d be quite happy. He scowls at her, picking at a spot on the fence.

Not quite knowing how to leave, Shireen gives him a low curtsy and a sarcastic, “My lord.” Then, she heads back for the armory, trying to figure her way around the straps that Arya tied. While Shireen fumbles with the leather, she hears the crunching of snow behind her. Quickly, she moves to hide in the shadows. However, coming over is Bran, who is easily stripping off his own armor. There’s a small movement behind him, but Shireen only catches the flick of a black tail before it disappears. She’ll have to find Shaggydog later.

Bran doesn’t notice her until he finishes putting his equipment away. “La—Shireen,” he says quickly, moving to bow before her. “You’re… were you shooting?”

Shireen feels her face flush. “I was only keeping Arya company,” she confesses. “Although, I did take a shot while everyone was preoccupied.” She weakly holds up the arrow.

Grinning at her, Bran adjusts his sleeve. “And how did you do?”

“Well, I’ve only one of my three arrows,” Shireen says. “I imagine you’ll be looking for my other two for quite some time.”

Bran laughs, and Shireen busies herself in trying to remove her armor. In two steps, Bran closes the distance between them, taking her wrist and easily untying the leather from her arm. “And where did that one land?” he asks, moving to put it away.

Biting her lip, Shireen tries to suppress another blush. She feels as if she shouldn’t tell him of Rickon’s involvement with the shot, but she cannot take the credit in good faith. “It hit the mark,” she admits, making Bran turn in shock. She rushes on. “But only after Rickon had a good laugh at me and assisted me with the shot.”

Bran’s eyes narrow just slightly. “Assisted you?” he asks.

Shireen’s grip tightens on the arrow in her hand, knowing that she shouldn’t say more. She knows that she should never be so familiar with anyone, particularly not with the brother of her betrothed. She swallows hard and takes a step away. “He made some suggestions,” she says quickly, thinking that that was the most she could say. “Forgive me. I must be heading back to my rooms.”

Shireen turns from the armory and runs off as quick as she can. In the distance, Shireen can still hear the wayward sounds of playing direwolves, and she is tempted to see them. However, she can still feel a weight on her waist from Rickon’s touch, and she feels incredibly guilty. The look Bran had been giving her made her deeply uncomfortable, and fleeing feels like her only option. On her way back to the keep, Shireen manages to crash into both of the Reeds, giving them rushed apologies before continuing on her way to hide somewhere.

Knowing that it’ll be the first place anyone will look for her, Shireen avoids the library. Instead of staying still, Shireen roams the keep, hoping for some other form of distraction. It doesn’t take long for Sansa to crash into her.

“Oh, Shireen!” she exclaims. She looks remarkably overjoyed, and Jeyne Poole grins from behind her. “We were about to go be fitted for new gowns—for Robb’s wedding. Would you like one as well?”

“I’d love one,” Shireen says, following Sansa down the halls. While Shireen isn’t sure she needs a new gown, she’s positive that this will keep her far from anyone she doesn’t wish to see. The fitting and measurements for gowns takes the rest of the day, and Shireen easily sits off in a corner of the room while Sansa and Jeyne discuss prospects of their own betrothals.

Within the next couple months, Winterfell gets crowded. It still snows regularly, though there are no signs of coming blizzards and snowstorms. The weather is a small detriment to some travelers, but many have come to see the marriage of Robb Stark and compete in the tourney. Shireen looks eagerly at the visitors as they come. She already knows that her parents will not be in the crowd, having received their raven a few days ago, but she feels a thrill run through her as she sees Winterfell set up for a tourney.

Arya has taken to dragging Shireen down while everyone sets up tents and makes the necessary preparations. It doesn’t take long for the sound of ringing metal and dull hits against posts to become omnipresent, and Shireen finds herself hiding more and more as people give her strange looks. After her past years of living with a household that has largely ignored her greyscale, to suddenly be surrounded by high lords and ladies who give her repulsed looks is extremely discouraging and uncomfortable. 

Only Arya seems to think this is a problem, as she keeps trying to get Shireen’s company whenever she tries to persuade the new blacksmiths to make her swords. Meanwhile, Sansa and Jeyne have taken to strolling the yard together and admiring the newcomers. 

All the men begin to practice in the yard every day. Shireen thinks that perhaps it is too excessive, though she expects that they are trying to show off. Bran spends even more time in the yard, and Shireen can see his determination to prove himself. Robb, Jon, and Theon join him, and soon men from across the Seven Kingdoms are joining as well. Unsurprisingly, Shireen sees even less of Rickon, and he seems to have disappeared while Winterfell is flooded with guests. Almost all the direwolves have been locked up or are required to be directly at their owners’ sides.

Shireen tries to spend her time normally, though the looks are not inviting about the yards anymore. On the eve of Robb’s wedding, she heads to the godswood to see how it has been redecorated for the ceremony. A few benches have been laid out, and Shireen takes a seat at one, looking up at the Heart Tree. A few moments after she sits down, Shaggydog walks out of the trees. He takes a few steps toward her before stopping.

Smiling at the black direwolf, Shireen taps the bench next to her, encouraging him to walk over. She can see the visible growth in the direwolf just from her years here, and Shaggydog stands nearly as tall as she does. His massive paws pad through the snow, leaving deep prints behind him. The direwolf sits before her, leaning over to rest his head in her lap. Slowly, Shireen lifts a hand to run her fingers through his fur. She can feel his chest rumble with a low sound when she rubs his snout. Giggling at him, Shireen continues, lifting her other hand to scratch at his ears.

Shaggydog is incredibly warm against her legs, and his fur is extremely soft. The low rumble from his chest sends waves of comfort through her, and Shireen finds herself falling to sleep just being near him. Her head starts to droop of its own accord, and Shireen shakes herself to stay awake. Off to her side, she hears laughter. Turning to the noise, Shireen finds Rickon sitting between two trees. He somewhat buried in the snow, and Shireen suspects that he is personally responsible for piling it over his legs. With great effort, he stands, letting all the loose powder fly to the ground. Slowly, he walks over to her, taking a seat a good distance away from her.

“I wouldn’t recommend falling asleep here again,” he says casually, leaning over to rub Shaggydog between the ears. The direwolf noses at his hand before settling on Shireen’s lap again. Shireen looks over to him, but he doesn’t look up from his direwolf. “You’d be found a lot sooner, though, what with the wedding and all.”

He looks up at her then, and Shireen is stuck by his eyes. She glances away quickly. “You haven’t been seen in weeks,” she says. “Everyone thought you left again.”

“I’m not allowed to miss Robb’s wedding,” he tells her. “He made me promise.”

Shireen laughs, turning her attentions back to Shaggydog. The direwolf’s eyes are looking straight at her. With a small amount of shock, Shireen looks between Rickon and his wolf. “Your eyes match,” she says.

Rickon glances around, furrowing his brow. “With… each other?” he asks slowly.

“No, with Shaggydog’s,” Shireen giggles out.

A toothy grin spreads across Rickon’s face. “Well, some people have called me part wolf before,” he says. Rickon gets up slowly, stretching and finally dusting the snow from his legs. “I have to lock him up tomorrow. Shaggy’s not going to like it.”

“Do you keep him in your room?” Shireen asks, remembering how Sansa kept Lady in hers.

“Shaggy tore apart my bed last time I tried,” Rickon laughs. “I’ll have to take him to the kennels… Farlen won’t like _that_ very much either.” He whistles, and Shaggy looks up briefly before sinking back to Shireen’s lap.

Before Rickon can forcibly pull Shaggydog from Shireen’s lap, she stands slowly. On her way up, Shireen taps Shaggydog lightly on his head. To her surprise, the direwolf stands as well. He circles her legs once before going over to lick Rickon’s hands. Shireen feels a small knot of tension bubbling in her stomach, and with small hesitation she looks back to Rickon. He hasn’t moved since Shaggydog returned to his side. His eyes are fixated on her, and a look of pure bewilderment is on his face. Shireen clears her throat gently and steps away. She recognizes the look—has seen it on others’ faces. He looks at her as if he is seeing her for the first time, like she is something worth looking at.

With a small curtsy, Shireen takes another step away before giving him a small curtsy. At that, Rickon snaps back to attention. Clearing his throat loudly, he walks over to her. “Mayhaps I should give him another chance in my room,” Rickon mumbles. “He’s not usually so well-behaved.”

Shireen giggles again, giving Shaggydog another soft stroke. A bit awkwardly, Rickon offers her his elbow. Tentatively, Shireen takes it. She swallows the feeling that wells up in her stomach, only just letting her fingers rest on his arm. Nothing about this _should_ feel strange. Shireen has absolutely no qualms taking an arm from Robb, Jon, or Theon. Yet she can’t help but feel like something about this is wrong. Perhaps it was the circumstances in which she met him, that everything about it was far too close for comfort. Fleetingly, she remembers how he held her face and how he gently moved his fingers over her greyscale. Shireen stumbles over her feet, nearly falling into the snow.

Rickon and Shaggydog move as one: both of them stopping her journey to the snow and supporting her until she stands on her own. When she finally manages it, Shaggydog nudges her stomach before walking off in front of them. Rickon’s hands linger on her shoulders for a moment too long before he draws away. He doesn’t offer her his arm again, and he’s a step away from her all the way back to the keep.

There is a definite tension building between them, and Shireen refuses to allow it to mount. “Are you looking forward to the ceremony?” she asks.

Rickon shrugs. “Not particularly.”

“The tourney?” she inquires.

“I’m not allowed to compete,” he says. “Too young, says my father. Bran will be competing, though. I take it you’ll be giving him your favor?”

“As is expected from a betrothed,” Shireen replies, knowing that she’s had one sewn for the past few weeks.

A loud sigh escapes Rickon. “He’ll definitely name you the Queen of Love of Beauty should he win,” he says, somewhat mockingly. “And then the two of you can enjoy many dances through the night.”

Shireen ignores his bitter tone. “Will you be dancing?”

“Don’t like dancing,” Rickon brushes off. He gives her a brief smile just as they reach the doors to the keep. Opening them, he waves her inside. “My lady.”

After another curtsy, Shireen rushes inside. She’s uncertain what to make of her encounters with Rickon. Though she knows that most would make something of his actions, they have never been seen together. Shireen wonders if it is merely coincidence, or if it has always been planned as such. Swallowing the thought, Shireen rushes to her room to thoroughly distract herself. Heading to her rooms, Shireen retrieves the favor she is to give Bran and seeks him out. Surely, he is to accept, given their betrothal and his kinder nature regarding her.

It doesn’t take long to find him, surrounded by the Reeds and in the company of his direwolf. Summer has yet to greet Shireen with any of the warmth that Shaggydog gives her. He has stopped growling at her, at the bequest of Bran, but he’ll go no further than giving her cold looks across the way. At Shireen’s approach, Summer gives her a swift look before moving as far from her as he can, sitting near the feet of Jojen Reed. Meera laughs, lifting a hand to stroke Summer’s snout as Bran walks over.

“My lady,” Bran says cordially. He even gives her a bow.

Shireen sighs, knowing that no matter how many times she has tried to break the pleasantries between them, Bran will not budge. She gives him a formal curtsy in return. “I’ve come to offer you my favor,” she tells him, extracting the patch of fabric from her sleeve. “I’ve been told that you’ll be riding in the tourney tomorrow.”

“Aye, I’ve listed in the tilt, my lady,” Bran says. She extends the fabric toward him and he takes it slowly. “I… I shall wear it proudly.”

His fingers gently rub over the fabric, smoothing it out several times. Shireen watches as his gaze flicks over to where the Reeds sit with Summer. Bran seems shy, glancing over to them, and Shireen realizes that he had been hoping for a favor from someone else. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Shireen says softly. She is certain that Bran doesn’t hear her. He simply wanders back to the Reeds as if in a haze. Summer sniffs at the fabric before snapping sharply at it, though Meera snatches it away from him, moving to tie it over Bran’s arm. He pulls it off quickly, tucking it away. With a sigh, Shireen steps away, returning to the keep to prepare for the day to come on the morrow. 

The day turns out to be far longer than Shireen expects. She wakes at the crack of dawn for a quick bath before she is tied into her dress for the day. It is a black gown done in the northern style with gold embellishments to represent her house. It is a marvelous gown, and Shireen loves to twirl in it. She hopes the many lords in attendance will look past her greyscale for a dance, and she wishes that Bran will be with her as well.

Shireen does whatever she can to convince herself that all will be well, but she stops her optimism from taking over as a maid braids back her hair. Soon, she is deemed appropriate for the day and she accompanies the other Stark ladies down to the godswood. Catelyn arrives late, leaning over to whisper into the ear of her eldest daughter. Shireen watches on, allowing their family time together before Robb’s wedding. She notices the Mormonts in attendance, here to see Dacey wed and all done up in Northern finery. A few of them shoot her looks similar to that of other lords, and Shireen turns away, deciding to ignore all the company that would speak ill of her.

The Stark men join them soon, and Shireen sees that they have all submitted to haircuts and shaving, looking dapper in their new clothes. Grey Wind accompanies Robb, and they stand together at the Heart Tree, awaiting Dacey Mormont. Shireen means to watch the ceremony with her full attention, but she catches sight of Bran seated between the Reeds and immediately becomes distracted.

Even so, the ceremony is far shorter than she expects, the old gods of the North having far fewer courtesies than would be paid to the Seven. Before she is aware, everyone is rushing off to the tourney, preparing their armor of the melee that’s to come before the tilt. Having no interest in the fighting, Shireen allows herself another moment to be pulled about by Arya.

Arya very happily leads Shireen over to a smith’s shop, pointing out all the weapons and armor that she wishes made for herself. Now, Shireen has only seen her uncles a decade prior, but when the smith appears, she thinks that he’s like to be one of them. Bouncing on her feet, Arya pulls at Shireen’s sleeve.

“This one is coming to smith for us,” Arya tells her. “Jon Arryn sent him from King’s Landing. _And_ he’s offered to make me a sword.”

The smith gives Arya a small smile, one that Shireen is becoming used to being aimed at everyone but her. He looks down at the bit of armor he carries and says, “Deal was I’d make it if you stopped speaking. Can’t seem to manage it, can you?”

Laughing, Arya leans over the table, undoubtedly giving the smith a spectacular view. Arya has absolutely no concerns over this, flicking her braid over her shoulder and twisting her hair about her fingers. Shireen blushes at her gall, thinking that even without her greyscale she would be incapable of such tactics. Stepping away, Shireen leaves unbeknownst to either of the two involved. She quickly finds her way to the stands for the tilt, taking a seat next to Jeyne Poole. They are quickly joined by Sansa, along with a swarm of spectators for the tilt.

Robb and Dacey are seated up with Lord and Lady Stark, as well as a few of the Mormonts. Shireen turns to watch the rounds, sparing them only a small bit of attention as she watches the crowd. Sansa and Jeyne keep up a nonstop commentary of the events, though they seem much more interested in the finery of the armor and care of the horses than the actual results. Quite a few people have turned out for the tourney, most of them Northern lords that Shireen has only just begun to learn the banners of. 

They all ride hard in the cleared yard, forcing one or the other from their mounts. Applauding along with the crowds, Shireen follows the events. Arya arrives halfway through the first round. Shireen notices that her collar is crooked.

“Has Bran ridden yet?” she asks.

Sansa looks at her, her eyes lingering on the collar of Arya’s dress. Instead of telling her the results of the rounds, Sansa tells her how everyone has looked. Jeyne supplies details where needed, though it is obvious that Arya is not interested. Shireen takes a moment to point out Arya’s dress and she fixes it hastily, retying her gown as discreetly as she can be bothered to be.

“Bran’s not ridden yet,” Shireen tells her. “Though, he is by far the youngest. It is a wonder he was even allowed.”

“Rickon wasn’t,” Arya says, settling back to enjoy the tilt. “Though I think that argument was because he wanted to ride Shaggydog instead of a horse.”

“Shaggydog’s smaller than a horse, though,” Shireen points out. She briefly wonders if that observation will stay true much longer.

Arya laughs, turning to face Shireen while the men reset. “Any reasonable horse will cower from the scent of a direwolf.” A predatory grin spreads across Arya’s face. “Same with aurochs, stags… any game, really. They can sense the impending kill. Besides, Shaggydog is already like to attack people, there’s no telling what he’d do after being asked to run toward a horse.”

Shireen bites her tongue, thinking that of all of Shaggydog’s traits, fearsome was not one of them. He often sat patiently while she read, would even lick her greyscale, and he only showed his teeth when he was happy. All in all, Shireen thinks that Summer is far less behaved, though Bran is not going to be riding his direwolf for the tilt, either. If anything, Bran is hoping for a knightship from the events of today, perhaps even going off to serve under a lord before being truly knighted.

The back of Arya’s hand flicks against her thigh, and Shireen makes to tell her off before she sees Bran riding into the yard. Sitting back, Shireen claps respectfully. Had there been any hope of seeing her favor, she would have sought it out, but Bran’s armor is incredibly well-made, and there are no discernible spots to see it. Shireen watches him ride, and he rides well. Bran manages to stay atop his mount for two incredibly hard blows, landing two blows himself. Shireen marvels at his abilities, watching him ready another lance. Though his lance hits its mark, his opponent has only just struck better, and Bran is thrown quite a height from his horse.

Shireen lets out a sharp gasp, and Sansa joins her in leaning forward in concern for her brother. With a hand to her mouth, Shireen watches as his horse rears back, falling down hard before scurrying off. Quickly, his opponent dismounts to give him a hand up. Arya leans onto her knees in boredom, sighing.

“What did he expect, really?” Arya asks to no one in particular. “He’s only just qualified as a man grown, and everyone here has been training for years. _I_ could probably unseat him.”

While Shireen is tempted to agree, thinking that Arya would win on sheer willpower alone, she is also concerned as Bran struggles for movement in his armor to get to his feet. He seems to be completely incapable, and even Arya moves up in concern.

“He’s hurt,” Sansa mutters. All the Starks seem to realize this at once. Robb leaps down from his seat to hurry over to his brother’s side. At the same time, a long, loud howl echoes through the grounds.

Arya’s eyes narrow at the sound as she turns to the source. “Summer,” she mutters. Soon, the other direwolves have joined in, and the sound is ominous. They glance back to Bran as he’s carried between Robb and Jon back to the keep. Arya tugs on Shireen’s arm, pulling them after the small party.

Shireen is surprised when Arya leads them to the rooms instead of after Bran. “Arya, shouldn’t we—?”

“He’ll want Summer,” Arya says firmly. She takes them to the door of Bran’s room, opening it slowly. When the door is wide enough, Summer bolts out, a streak of silver fur down the hall as he races off to find Bran. “We should go, too.”

Just as they are about to depart, Shireen hears a small whine behind her. A few doors down, she can hear scratching at the wood. With a small breath, Shireen goes to open the door to Rickon’s room, but Arya stops her.

“Not a good idea,” she warns. “Shaggy can’t walk through the keep with all these people here. He’ll attack.”

Shireen steels herself, looking to the door. The scratching has stopped, but she knows that Shaggydog is just behind the door. Ignoring Arya, she presses forward. “I’ll watch him,” she says firmly, pushing the door open.

Shaggydog lies on the floor, his snout pressed up to the crack in the door. The only discernible damage that Shireen can see is a torn pillow that leaves goose down scattered about the room. The direwolf doesn’t move from his spot, looking up at Shireen and letting out a low whine. Shireen taps her leg lightly, and the direwolf stands. He takes slow steps toward them until he’s in the hall, standing at Shireen’s side. After closing the door, Shireen turns to Arya, looking for directions to the maester’s chambers. 

Arya just stares at her in shock. “Huh,” she says. “He likes you.”

As if cued by her, Shaggydog moves over Shireen’s shoulder and gently licks her greyscale. “He’s always been nice,” Shireen says, reaching up to rub his snout. “Bran?”

Snapping back to focus, Arya leads them to the through Winterfell. She keeps glancing back as they go, as if waiting for Shaggydog to stray from them. He doesn’t, though, and they enter the chambers where the maester works over Bran’s legs. Summer has claimed half of Bran’s bed, curled up to rest his head over Bran’s hips. Maester Luwin is working over Bran’s legs, binding them and cleaning up a few signs of blood. Off to the side, Robb, Sansa, and Jon stand, watching and waiting anxiously for the outcome from Maester Luwin. Bran appears to be sleeping, turned slightly toward the direwolf on his bed.

Shaggydog steps into the room before them, going over to Bran’s other side and sniffing at him. When Maester Luwin turns back to Bran, he looks annoyed briefly before he pales, realizing that it is Shaggydog that blocks his path. He looks about the room wildly for some solution, so Robb steps forward.

“He’s fine,” someone says from a corner of the room. It takes Shireen a moment to see Rickon mostly hidden from view. He clicks his tongue and Shaggydog returns to his side just as Ned and Catelyn rush in.

“How is he?” Ned asks immediately.

Maester Luwin gives him a slightly worried look. “There is much bruising on his back and legs,” he says slowly. “I gave him milk of the poppy for the pain, and he fell asleep. His legs appear undamaged, but I will not know what has happened until he wakes.”

Catelyn’s eyes are filled with tears, but she shakes her head weakly. Ned puts an arm around her, thanking Luwin and leading her from the room. Shireen hopes that Bran will be fine, that he will wake soon. His siblings soon leave the room, and the maester recommends that she leave as well. With a final glance to the room, Shireen leaves, not knowing how any celebration will continue with Bran potentially injured.

She finds herself idling about the keep, waiting for the feast that will still come. Almost everyone ignores her on the bench she occupies, so she is shocked when Meera Reed takes a seat beside her.

“We used to go climbing with him,” Meera says. “Me and my brother, I mean. Bran loved to climb all about the castle, no matter how dangerous. Whenever Jojen didn’t accompany him, he told Bran that he’d be like to fall. I feel like Jojen knew and was trying to warn him.”

“He can’t have known,” Shireen says softly. “Though, it is unfortunate. He wished to be a knight.”

Meera gives her a soft smile. “I believe he’ll be contented with what he has. Jojen seems to think so.”

“You and Jojen care for him,” Shireen mutters.

“We do,” Meera says. “We came after Jojen had a dream about him. Green dreams, he calls them.”

Shireen sighs. “I wished to be closer to him,” she confesses. “But we were so different—looking for different lives.”

“You’re still betrothed,” Meera points out. “I think you’ll be able to reach an understanding.”

Giving Shireen’s shoulder a comforting squeeze, Meera heads off, leaving Shireen to await the feast on her own. A few hours later, she is led into the hall to take her seat near Arya and Sansa. Though the mood is slightly subdued, everyone seems to be trying to celebrate in spite of recent events. Shireen completely abandons all hopes of dancing now that Bran is injured. When the music starts up, she is thoroughly surprised to feel a tap on her shoulder. She turns to find Jon giving her a small smile.

“I thought you might like a dance, my lady,” he says. Shireen is positive that her mother would have thrown a fit to see her dancing with Jon Snow, but she is grateful that he has offered. She takes his proffered hand and follows him to the floor. Back on the dance floor, Shireen is happy to be twirling around and distracted from her thoughts. Jon is pulled away from her quickly, and she imagines that he has a few admirers around Winterfell despite being the most famous bastard of the North.

She gets to the edge of the hall, taking a seat. At the table, Catelyn is preparing a plate of food and carrying it from the hall. Shireen is tempted to follow her, but someone else extends a hand to her. She doesn’t recognize him at all, nor is she bothered by the fact when he recoils from her greyscale.

“I—my lady,” he mumbles out. Shireen knows that he forces the words out. “Would you care to dance?”

The temptation to accept is building in her, if only to make him uncomfortable for a song. However, Shireen knows she would never enjoy a dance with someone so foul. “I’ll have to decline,” she says politely, giving him a small bow.

He sighs loudly before walking off, looking thoroughly relieved. Shireen sees him sharing another laugh and gesticulations that can only be about her with a group of lords. Feeling bitter, Shireen looks away, thinking that she can escape before word spreads of her affliction. There’s a loud commotion from the group that makes Shireen look over, and she sees some of the men sprawled out on the floor. Rickon walks through them smirking slightly. He walks straight up to her, holding out a hand.

“Dance with me,” he tells her. It’s forward, but Shireen expects nothing less from him.

She takes his hand gently. “You don’t like dancing,” she says back.

“You do,” he says simply, taking her to the floor. Shireen expects that he is only being kind to her to make her forget the other lords who ignore her, but he accompanies her across the floor for three songs. He holds her regularly, not letting his hands wander, and Shireen relaxes as they dance.

The whole time, Shireen tries to enjoy herself, but there is a girl with green hair who eyes Rickon the entire time. She thinks it a bit odd because Rickon obviously notices, but he pays her no mind. When the song ends, the green-haired girl walks up to them, facing Rickon entirely.

“May I cut in?” she asks. She buries a hand in her hair, and Shireen can tell that she’s loosened her gown for the night.

Shireen makes to step away, but Rickon steps with her. “No, thanks,” he says quickly.

Gritting her teeth, Shireen forces herself away. “You should enjoy yourself,” she tells him, giving him a weak smile. Before he can protest, Shireen moves off the floor, searching for a quick way from the hall. Without his company, Shireen does not think she will enjoy herself, but she also feels she should have someone else as company tonight.

Hesitantly, she makes her way over to the maester’s chambers, hoping that Bran will enjoy her company since he is currently bedridden. The halls of Winterfell are oddly silent, and Shireen feels like a ghost wandering around. The noise of the feast fades away as she moves on, and a chill soon bites at her skin. Of course, there was no need to wear a cloak while she was in the crowded hall for the feast where everyone dances and makes merry, but snow falls in neat layers now, making the empty corridors seem all the colder for it.

A few minutes later, Shireen arrives. She slows down for her last few steps, straightening her gown and trying her best to fix her hair back into place. Pausing outside the slightly open door, Shireen’s hand freezes before knocking when she hears voices.

“…not a knight, but any keep would be lucky to have you,” she hears.

“None will have me now,” Bran says firmly. “I’m not even set to inherit _her_ birthright. What keep would wish for a crippled lord?”

“You are not crippled.”

“I can’t feel my legs, Jojen,” Bran shoots back. Shireen can hear his voice shaking. “I can’t be a knight. I can’t fight. No one will have me.”

“Greywater Watch would be honored to have you,” Jojen responds, still calm and even despite Bran’s tone. “ _I_ would have you.”

“You know I can’t have you,” Bran whispers. Shireen strains her ears to hear him go on. “I’m promised to another.”

Shireen raises a hand to her mouth to stop the small gasp that threatens to leave her. She had dramatically misinterpreted the situation: Bran wasn’t longing for Meera—he wanted Jojen. Though such things are not unheard of, Shireen thinks of what a strange marriage she’ll have with him. Will Bran demand to keep Jojen with them at whatever keep they hold? Would she be able to stand knowing?

“I’ll not leave your side, my lord,” Jojen says. It pains Shireen’s heart to hear such love in his voice, knowing that Jojen means every word, that he will do anything for Bran. “You have my loyalty.”

A short moment passes. This time, Bran mumbles out something even softer than before. Shireen can’t make out the words, and they are silent afterwards, although she can hear movement coming from the room. Swallowing a breath, Shireen feels as if she should run. There is no future at Winterfell for her, and she wonders if the match is worthwhile if Bran will never truly love her. There is no hope of a happy marriage for her. A comfortable marriage, perhaps, but she will never be wed and have a husband who grows to loves her. 

Shaking her senses back, Shireen flees, plotting out a path that will allow her to meet no one else while she wanders. The information is already threatening to betray her, and she feels that she is like to spill the information to whoever she first meets. In spite of the nagging in her brain, Shireen believes that she will never betray Bran. They are still engaged to be married, and she will do her duty as a Baratheon lady no matter the circumstances. Bran can live contentedly, with his own knight to save him from his demons. Shireen had been prepared to live a loveless marriage her entire life and she knows that that is all she is destined to. Now, she simply has to prepare herself for the eventual distance she is bound to face for the rest of her life.

When she hits a dead end in the corridors, Shireen doesn’t even bother turning to find her way back. She simply sits down in the corner, placing her side against the cold stones. Leaning over her knees, Shireen starts shaking as the sobs wrack through her body. Emotions flood through her and she doesn’t even know if she’s angry, sad, disappointed, or if something else is running through her system. Apparently, she is making far too much noise because she is soon discovered by Shaggydog. The massive direwolf curls around her, digging his head onto her lap before looking up and licking at her chin. A smile is dug out of her with the comfort he provides.

Shireen digs her hands through his fur, letting the warmth of the direwolf warm her up. They are a black splotch together at the end of this corridor, blending into the shadows more as the moon rises and throws darkness everywhere. Holding onto the direwolf, Shireen leans over to press her face to his fur, feeling all the more cold as the night wears on.

She isn’t sure how long they sit together when footsteps finally approach, and she half-hopes that no one will ever find her. They definitely grow louder, though, so she looks up, finding Rickon a few paces away. Without saying anything, he takes a seat next to her, crossing his legs to avoid hitting Shaggydog. The silence presses on for a few minutes more until Rickon finally says, “I was looking for you.”

When she doesn’t say anything, he goes on. “Wylla Manderly thought me quite rude for leaving during the song, but she didn’t even have her dress done up proper. You’d think she was preparing for her own bedding.”

Shireen can’t find it in herself to smile even though he is obviously japing for her amusement. She still feels crushed at the revelations regarding Bran’s feelings.

“I thought you might have gone to see Bran,” he mumbles. Shireen freezes, but Rickon isn’t watching her. His eyes are trained on Shaggydog. “I… he might have appreciated your company given what happened. I went to check, but he was… _preoccupied_ when I got there.”

The knot tightens in her stomach, and Shireen wonders if that’s why he sought her out—if he means to warn her about her betrothed, but she doesn’t think him capable of throwing his brother out like that. Shireen tries to clear her throat gently, but she struggles, dry as it is. “I, er, I had gone to see him,” she admits, her voice soft. “He didn’t seem interested in my company.”

Rickon finally looks to her, and she can see the understanding cross his eyes. “Shireen, I’m so sorry,” he says, reaching for her hand. Shireen draws away sharply, unsure if she can take his touches now. Rickon lets out a sigh. “I’d have told you had I known… you could have sought another…”

Shaking her head, Shireen doesn’t stop the dry laugh that leaves her. “No one would have me,” she says shortly. “It is nothing I wasn’t prepared for.” She gives him a hard look, knowing that she looks cruel for it, but she no longer cares. “Greyscale as a child, doomed to a life of being tossed away… I never expected love from a marriage. Happiness, perhaps fondness… But I was never foolish enough to wish for love.”

Meeting his green eyes, Shireen is surprised to see the determination in them. Rickon half turns toward her, squaring his shoulders, and Shireen realizes that she is trapped in this corner. He moves away marginally, noticing this himself. “Why not?” he asks.

Shireen feels as if she has just taken a blow. Surely, he does not mean to mock her now in her moment of weakness. He cannot possibly be trying to get a rise out of her. But perhaps that is his intention. Perhaps, he hopes that she will make a fool of herself, prove herself unworthy so he can help his brother get his wish. “My greyscale frightens everyone I meet,” Shireen says firmly, crossing her arms. “No one wishes to share a yard with me, much less a marriage. Most women my age have at least been snuck away for a kiss by now—even Arya has that smith—but I am nearly an old maid with no prospects of affection. My hopes of love are better left not thought of.”

Rickon cocks his head to the side. He shakes his head slightly as if he doesn’t believe her. Leaning back on the cold stone, he lets out a heavy sigh. “Shireen,” he says, not meeting her gaze. He’s staring up at the ceiling, and she doesn’t know what he’s going to say, but she thinks it is difficult for him. “You already have someone’s love.”

His words rock through her before it settles. She remembers the weight of the direwolf on her lap. Bending her knees to move further into the corner, Shaggydog is just pushed off her, his head now on top of her skirts. She hides as much as she can before looking back to Rickon. “Shaggydog doesn’t count,” she says.

“I wasn’t talking about Shaggydog,” Rickon replies, turning to look her directly in the eyes. Shireen is thrown back from the sheer intensity of his gaze, and she is thankful that she isn’t standing because she feels her knees shaking. There is the look she recognizes—the look she has seen in nearly everyone else, though never directed at herself. It is jarring to see such a look when she knows that she is the only possible person who could be receiving it.

Opening her mouth to respond, Shireen stops. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what she _can_ say when her world has just been turned upside down. Quickly, she reminds herself that nothing about her life has changed: she is still afflicted with greyscale, she is still betrothed to Bran, and she will still have a marriage that neither of the people involved want. Shireen feels over-sensitive now, feeling the chill pierce through her skin and drive to her core. A small blossom of hope springs to life in her chest, but she buries it deep. Instead, she allows the cold to manifest inside her, but now she can’t help but rub at her arms.

Rickon’s eyes finally leave hers as her hands move. He sits up, and Shireen thinks he’ll leave. However, he simply unclasps his cloak and throws it over her legs. His hands linger to make sure that she is fully covered. 

Shireen struggles to swallow. “I—thank you.” The thought strikes her hard. She isn’t sure what she thanks him for: his cloak, the warmth, his proclaimed love. All of it seems too bizarre to be real, and she cannot grasp what is happening to her. Her mind settles on one sure thought: that even if Rickon claims to have feelings for her, even he would not be content to wed someone with greyscale, particularly if a keep is attached to the marriage. He doesn’t want a marriage, nor does he want a lordship, and both would come with her hand. She slumps down slightly, resting away from him.

“You don’t believe me,” Rickon mutters.

Turning back to him, Shireen sees that he continues to gaze at her, and she cannot allow herself to be prey to his will. Her hope cannot build at the looks of this man. Before she succumbs to him, she stands. “No, Rickon,” she says firmly. Her hands smooth over her skirts, letting his cloak fall. “I can’t. You don’t understand what you’re saying. You don’t know what that means. I cannot be loved.”

Without waiting for a response, Shireen steps over Shaggydog and makes her way down the hall. She can hear the distant growls of the direwolf, but there is no doubt in her mind that they are directed at Rickon and not herself. Rushing as much as she can, Shireen feels her will give out in an adjacent corridor. She slumps against one of the stone posts that look down into the courtyard below. Guests have begun to leave the hall, and Shireen sees couples sneaking away to seclude themselves within each other. The whole world is surely mocking her, and Shireen feels a scream building up in her chest. It dies out to fear when someone takes her shoulder to turn her around.

She has no reason to be surprised to find Rickon there, but the fear leaves her system to make way for anxiety. Without greeting her, Rickon throws his cloak over her shoulders, clasping it at the hollow of her neck. He bites his lip as he works, and he steps away sheepishly when he finishes. “You look cold, Shireen,” he says. “I’ll not have you freezing again.”

A wave of anger courses through her. She remembers _that_ night well enough without being prompted, and she believes him a hypocrite for saying anything about it when _he_ was the one who came to her rescue. Not bothering to stop herself, Shireen raises a hand and strikes him across the face. It appears to have done no damage to him, but she feels better for it. Rickon blinks at her.

“I will not be mocked,” she says sharply. Shireen can feel tears betraying her, but refuses to stop now. She’s already gone too far. “You are not _permitted_ to toy with my emotions, regardless of my situation. You cannot warm me with your words. And I will not allow you to speak as such.”

The tears fall, then. Shireen feels them beating paths down her cheeks, but she will not wipe them away. Her strength will not break in the face of this challenge. She has Baratheon fury on her side, and she keeps her resolve. Shireen crosses her arms for good measure, daring him to contradict her. To her immense surprise, he gives her a smile.

“I do not mock you, my lady,” Rickon says, keeping his voice even. He takes a step toward her, closing the little distance that was between them. She quickly looks around, hoping that no one will catch them now that he’s pressed his chest against hers, pinning her to the wall. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his hands move, and she braces herself for a touch. “I simply worry for your health. I cannot stand by and watch the woman I love suffer… especially not when I can prevent it.”

Shireen breaks then, feeling a tight pull deep in her stomach. Surely, he will be her ultimate downfall. “I—you can’t, Rickon,” she mumbles out.

Rickon’s hands land gently on her face, his thumbs brushing away the wetness her tears left there. He does nothing to shy from her greyscale. If anything, he is more attentive to that side of her face, moving his fingers over the landscape of her cheek. “That won’t stop me from trying,” he mumbles. 

Shireen is fully prepared for him to steal a kiss from her, from him to claim her, for him to make her _his_. She is not prepared for his hand to fall from her greyscale only to be replaced by his lips. The sensation threatens to knock her away again, as he acknowledges the affliction that left her ignored for all her life. She is suddenly thankful for his proximity, knowing that only his weight keeps her from falling over entirely. His hand falls to her waist, and she remembers its weight there. It feels right regardless of the scandal that will come should they be found. Rickon has ignited something deep inside her, something that she has never allowed herself to feel because she feared rejection more than she feared dishonor. He has broken down her walls, and she _wants_ him now.

He pulls away slightly, leaning his forehead against hers and staring her straight in the eyes. They are obviously burning through her, and Shireen knows the look. He looks at her as if preparing for a kill, and she is a doe ready to be slain. His eyes widen slightly in question, and Shireen knows what he asks, though she wonders if he really needs to. Still, she nods her head the slightest amount, and it is all the encouragement he needs to fit his mouth to hers.

Shireen is certain that a line has been drawn between them, that the gods are pulling the strings and bringing them closer together. The spark within her grows to a roaring flame, and she welcomes the thought that it will burn her down. His mouth moves against hers, and she knows he means to devour her whole. Returning the motion, Shireen allows herself to be consumed by him, knowing that this is her reprieve— _this_ is what love is. Grasping at his shoulders, Shireen draws him closer, deepening the kiss they share and sinking herself into her fate.

Rickon loves her. He has told her, done everything he can to show her. His touches are always warm, and how she longs for him in the same way. Digging her hands into his hair, Shireen relishes in it. All the intimacy that he gives—that he has never been afraid of—is her joy. It is her release from her destiny because she has this. She has him.

His jaw drops against hers, and there is the slightest dip of his tongue into her mouth when a door bangs open loudly. Even Rickon is not immune to the fright, and he jumps away from her, looking around for the source of the noise. Shireen’s heart is beating hard in her chest, nearly pounding straight out of her body for it no longer belongs to her, and she feels the loss of it already. 

Rickon frowns as he looks down into the courtyard, having located the source of the sound. “The bedding,” he says, turning back to her.

Shireen feels a simultaneous urge to step toward and away from him. She only knows which one wins out from the confused look Rickon gives her. There is a new layer of sadness in his eyes now, and Shireen knows that she cannot allow this to continue. “I must be going,” she breaths out, making to return his cloak.

Rickon shakes his head, stilling her hands with his own. “You’ll catch a chill,” he says. “Please, allow me to escort you—”

“You can’t,” Shireen says. Again, she feels tears threatening to fall from her eyes, but she will not allow them to come. “I—I’m… My hand is promised to another, Rickon. We shouldn’t have—Forgive me.”

Shaking free from his grasp, Shireen hurries off. She doesn’t dare look back. She doesn’t trust herself not to run back to him after a single look. Although she may have never expected any of this, she hates that she had it. She hates that her loyalty has been thrown so far aside. Most of all, she hates that she wants him. 

Throwing open the door to her rooms, Shireen quickly locks the door behind her. A maid has likely been assigned to help her prepare for bed, and she cannot bear to be in the presence of someone else. She throws Rickon’s cloak into the far corner of the room, thinking that its better place is out her window, and she struggles to remove her gown with shaking hands. As the tears finally spill, she manages it. Her gown is left on the floor, as the exhaustion from the day seeps into her. She loosens her braids slowly, letting the waves sit in her hair because she cannot be bothered to find a brush. Throwing herself to the pillows, Shireen cries into the night.

The rest of her life will be spent in contented marriage with Bran Stark and she will never be allowed to have Rickon again.


	4. On The Brink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is massively unedited due to distraction/my computer being nearly out of battery. I'll edit through tomorrow!

Heavy snowfalls and blizzards roll in to Winterfell the moment guests have finally cleared the keep. A large scouting party is sent off to check on the progress of the travelers, making sure that everyone returns to their own keeps safely while the residents in Winterfell seek shelter themselves. Shireen can’t help but feel that it’s romantic for Robb and Dacey to get to spend time together, but her heart aches for the loss she should have never felt. As the storms press in around them, Shireen finds that Rickon is trying to corner her again. She puts forth every effort to stop it from happening, to stop herself from remembering how she strayed from her betrothal.

Keeping next to Sansa and Arya helps. Shireen figures that Rickon won’t dare to bring up their involvement with his family around, so she doesn’t leave her rooms unless she is accompanied by someone else, foregoing the library entirely. Even so, he stays in the keep for longer than he ever has, and his family remarks on his strange behavior. He shies off, then, but she still catches him spying on her.

In an effort to keep him as far away as possible, Shireen spends time with Bran while he heals. To her immense discomfort, Jojen is nearly always there. Although the two don’t let anything on, Shireen notices lingering touches, shy glances, and coy smiles between the two. Her heart aches watching them, remembering how Rickon treated her as such.

“A game of _cyvasse_ , my lady?” Bran asks, gesturing for Jojen to retrieve the board.

Swallowing away all the emotions within her, Shireen nods, entering the room fully to take a seat at Bran’s side. He gives her a smile, pushing himself into a sitting position. Shireen moves forward, moving a pillow up for him to lean against. Bran groans slightly, accepting her help. With a small smile, Shireen moves back to her seat, taking the board from Jojen to set up her pieces.

“I must say, being bedridden has its advantages,” Bran says, striking up a conversation as they play. “I never gave myself much time to read before. It’s nearly all I do now.”

Smiling, Shireen looks down at the board, considering her move. “I rather enjoy reading myself,” she tells him. In one motion, she removes one of his elephants from the board with a dragon.

Jojen laughs, leaning over to hit Bran’s shoulder. Bran scowls at both of them. “You are well-practiced,” he says.

Shireen hides a smile. “I had much time to play at Storm’s End,” she says. “Ser Davos often japed about making me his strategist.”

“And a fine one you would be,” Jojen replies, laughing and pointing as she takes another of Bran’s pieces from the board. Bran hits Jojen’s hand away, and Shireen notices that their hands never part as they fall to the bed.

“Who is Ser Davos?” Bran asks instead, giving her a significant look.

Training her eyes to his, Shireen forces herself to keep his gaze, knowing that a glance down would betray him. “He is on my father’s council,” Shireen says softly, moving a piece without looking. Bran asks a question to Jojen that she doesn’t hear. When he looks back at her, she can’t help but long for the eyes staring at her to be green instead of blue.

She keeps on the game in relative silence, only responding to the conversation politely. Although she knows she makes a few fatal errors, Bran doesn’t take advantage of them. She wins the game easily. Jojen celebrates with her, peeved as Bran looks about this turn of events. Giving him a smile, Shireen agrees to a rematch once he practices more.

“Seeing as your betrothed cannot celebrate with you, can I take you down to the kitchens for a treat?” Jojen offers.

Bran shoots him a significant look. Worry is written clear across his face, and Shireen assists him however she can, knowing that he deserves comfort from all available sources. “Oh, no,” Shireen says, hoping her tone doesn’t reveal anything. She slowly makes her way to the door, placing her fingers on the handle so she can leave quickly. “In fact, I should be—”

As she steps backwards into the hallway, Shireen crashes straight into a solid mass. Shireen prays to every god she knows that it is Jon Snow again, even though she knows he left for the Wall. She shuts her eyes tight as a hand lands on her shoulder to steady her. “Shireen.”

The voice pierces through her more than she thought it would. Her heart pounds at the proximity now, and she feels incapable of standing. Opening her mouth to respond, Shireen freezes, thinking that she has nothing to say. There is nothing she wants to say that she can, especially in the company of the man she is betrothed to. Jojen saves her.

“What brings you here, Rickon?” he asks. 

Shireen shuts her mouth and her eyes tight, and she can feel Rickon’s gaze leaving her. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Shireen tries to step around him. His hand slips down her back, out of sight of the room’s occupants. Shireen wants to strike him for being so bold. Chancing a look up at him, Shireen sees him scanning the room.

“I wanted a word with my brother,” he says gently. Rickon’s green eyes meet hers, and Shireen feels a physical ache when she looks away.

Already, her breaths are coming short, and Shireen is nauseated from being in this situation. “Excuse me,” she breathes out, prying herself away and racing down the hall as fast as her feet can take her. Unfortunately, the halls are still swarming with occupants, and Shireen holds in her tears and sobs. She seeks out a safe place to break down, heading back to her room.

For weeks since the wedding, she has intentionally avoided being anywhere close to Rickon. Feeling him so close, knowing he was there, having his fingers on her like that… Everything pulls at her, welling up inside of her and threatening to rip her apart. Crossing the room quickly, Shireen pulls shut her windows, trying to trap in any sound that may escape. Immediately after, she collapses on her bed, pulling a pillow to her mouth to stifle her sobs. 

If only she had never come North… Shireen wishes that she could have instead simply wed Bran when they first met, cold as he was to her. Loveless marriage or not, Shireen will give anything to stop the pain in her chest from building. All she has felt since then completely fills her, and while she admits that it makes her feel warm, she feels horrendous for foregoing her honor. Never should any of this have happened, and Shireen wants to tear it from her memory.

A small whine comes from behind her, and Shireen chokes on a sob. Even though she knows who her visitor is, she takes the time to compose herself before going to open the door. A pure black snout pokes into her room, begging for entrance. Opening the door wider, Shireen gives Shaggydog entrance before bolting the door shut behind him. Large as he is, Shaggydog makes for her bed, taking up most of the space. He is a massive beast, and though Shireen can imagine his ferociousness, she knows that he submits to her. Digging his snout down to her mattress, Shaggydog lets out a low whine. Recognizing the call and seeing the familiar grief in him, Shireen races over, throwing her arms about his neck and burrowing against his pelt.

Sobs leave her body in waves, shaking through everything she is. Somehow, she has become a betrothed woman longing for a lover, a lady seeking comfort from a direwolf, and the incredible fault in the image breaks her further. Shaggydog doesn’t stop whining. Shireen strokes his fur reassuringly, though she knows that her avoidance of his owner made her avoid him as well. She apologizes through her sobs, explaining her situation to the direwolf who cannot understand her. Pouring her heart out to him, Shireen spares no detail, seeking a solution to her problems.

Quite a few times, Shaggydog leans his head over to lick at her face, and Shireen repays him in scratches and pets. Curling against his side, she tries to sleep. Nothing can make her situation better, nothing can restore the loss of her honor, and she can do nothing to heal her heart. Just as she drifts off, Shaggydog lets out another sound, not a whine this time. The sound is deeper, more guttural, and it encompasses her. When he repeats it, Shireen realizes it is a howl, and the noise is filled with the same torture and grief that she feels. Distantly, she wonders if he understands—if it is possible for a direwolf to know her pain and sympathize for her loss.

As the storms clear weeks later, Shireen begins to leave the keep more. She wanders without purpose, seeking distraction from what lays within. Every day, she is all too aware that she is to marry Bran in little less than a year, and she resigns herself to this fate. As such, Shireen also puts a great effort in spending time with him, even if she must endure the presence of his would-be lover. It seems to shock everyone how well they are suited to be friends. Bran easily reads as much as she does, and he engages her in conversation that is thrilling and interesting. She begins thinking that perhaps a marriage to him would not be so horrible. They can enjoy company well enough, share conversation, challenge each other… and they could both keep lovers… and her children would still be Starks… 

Almost as soon as Shireen thinks it, she kills the thoughts. Never. _Never_ should she even consider such a scandalous life for herself. She beats the thought away, knowing that she will bring shame to all of House Baratheon with such a mindset. Already, her house is looking at downfall by her horrible cousin Joffrey, and she would not besmirch their name as he does. No. She is a proper lady. She is a Baratheon woman, and she will do her duty as is expected of her. Even if she lives a miserable life because of it.

So consumed as she is in her thoughts, Shireen nearly misses the summons from Lord and Lady Stark. She hurries through the corridors as fast as she can, feeling foolish for allowing herself to become so distracted with trivial matters. She meets them in Ned’s solar. Bran has been carried from his chambers, as he has shown no improvement since his fall, and Rickon is with them to her great surprise.

She doesn’t spare him a glance, knowing that she cannot permit herself to fall to his charms as she already has. No, she will keep herself held properly while she must. She will do her duty.

“Lady Shireen,” Ned greets, gesturing to a chair for her to take. Shireen accepts it, though she intentionally moves to face away from Rickon. She feels his gaze on her, and the ache builds in her stomach. “Unfortunately, a… _complication_ has arose with your betrothal.”

It takes a moment for Shireen to understand his words. She chances a look to Rickon and cannot read his face. Has he perhaps told of his brother’s affections for another? His own? Hers? Her heart pounds in her ears, and Shireen struggles to respond. “What complication, my lord?” she asks softly.

Ned sighs loudly, and he takes a seat across from her. “Maester Luwin has informed us that Bran’s injury is permanent,” he says slowly. “Bran will never walk again.”

Shireen looks over to Bran, but he hangs his head, staring down at his hands. Shireen turns back to Ned. “It is of little matter,” she mumbles, trying to remain diplomatic. Rickon’s gaze stings her harder than ever.

“Shireen,” Catelyn says gently, bending down before her and taking her hands. “The damage is extensive, and our maester believes that it would be impossible for your marriage to ever be consummated. Bran would not be able to provide you an heir.”

Her breath catches in her throat. Of course, the politics and necessitated outcome of marriage would be against her as well. Still, she holds fast to what she believes is right. “It would be of no concern,” she mumbles. “My mother struggled to bear me, and with my greyscale I’m sure no one expects me to conceive. The fault would be mine.”

There’s a loud scrape of wood on stone, and Shireen glances up to see Rickon storming about the room. He stops in a corner, hanging his head. Catelyn smiles at her, and it is a sad thing to see the realization of her self-pity on another’s face. “Do you truly wish to wed Bran, Shireen?” Catelyn asks.

Shireen senses an underlying question there. She feels as if her heart is lying open for all to see, and no one is fooled by her lies. “We are betrothed,” she says simply. “Though the vow was not mine, I will uphold it—on my honor as a Baratheon.”

Ned shakes his head, standing up and strolling about the room. “It is not a question of your duty—”

“It is,” Shireen says loudly. Though her behavior is rude, she will not allow her honor to be questioned when its fault shares the room. “My duty and my honor are given freely. I know my place. I will wed Bran.”

Bran looks up at her then. He seems oddly intact for having such a situation thrown at him. Regardless of her feelings, Shireen knows that he has overcome more. He clears his throat. “Should you desire a proper marriage… or an heir… Rickon has offered himself in my place,” he says.

A new wave of shock hits her because _that_ is his plan. He is still trying to sneak off with her, though now he puts forth the effort to make it fit into place. Shireen bites her tongue to stop any reaction to the announcement. Surely, Ned and Catelyn have discussed this if they chose to bring it up to her. For a moment, Shireen’s optimism inflates, but she pounds it down just as quickly. “I have accepted a betrothal already,” she says. “In the eyes of the Seven, I cannot take another without leave by my father. To act without his approval would be unseemly.”

“We ask for your opinion before your father’s,” Ned tells her, “to see if it is a match you would agree to.”

Steps come for behind her, and she knows that Rickon approaches. As surely as he will come to her, she will melt under his touch. She will bow to his wants, and she will disgrace her family. “I will keep my solemn oath unless my father makes the change,” she says quickly, hoping to escape before she becomes prey to Rickon again. “My vow holds until I receive word otherwise. I’ve no leave to make such decisions. Excuse me.”

Turning to leave the room, Shireen makes the mistake of catching Rickon’s eyes. He looks hurt at her words, as if she pulled out his heart and crushed it herself instead of denying an offer. She can see rage boiling up in him, and the sting of tears comes easily now because she has harmed him. She has inflicted pain upon him that she would never wish upon anyone. It is a struggle to leave the room, and Shireen collapses as soon as she closes the door. She shoves a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that build again. She almost wishes she hadn’t when she hears voices from the room.

“I’ll have to write to Stannis,” Ned says. “There’s no use in naming Bran his heir given his current state.”

“And Shireen?” Rickon asks. Desperation colors his words, and she longs for him to speak her name again.

“She does as her honor permits,” Catelyn says gently. “It is her decision—”

“That is _not_ her decision,” Rickon spits out.

Shireen hears shuffling and she is sure that Catelyn is reprimanding her son. “I forbid you to speak for her when she can do so herself,” she says sharply.

“She cannot speak for herself when her _honor_ dictates against it,” Rickon scoffs.

“What would you know about honor?” comes Brans voice. “You run off with wildlings at every opportunity. How many spearwives have you?”

Loud footsteps follow his question, and another scrape of wood on stone. “Rickon!” Catelyn shrieks out.

“I’ve never bedded anyone, and if your precious Jojen can—”

“ENOUGH,” Ned shouts. “I will not have such bickering and slander from my own sons. You both know your place in this matter. Stannis Baratheon must know of the situation _without_ your input, Rickon. Shireen is perfectly capable of writing herself if she sees fit.”

“If she isn’t cowered by duty to know what she feels, more like,” Rickon mutters.

Bran quickly retorts, “And how would you know anything of feelings?”

“Because I love her!” Rickon shouts. There’s a loud snap as something crashes to the floor. Shireen is shaken by his words, hearing them with such conviction and knowing that she was not meant to. Soft tears trace her cheeks now, wondering if she could ever admit the truth as Rickon does. She stands slowly, trying to compose herself for the walk back to her room.

“Now, Rickon,” Catelyn starts gently. “You cannot presume your emotions for her are so strong. She is already forced into her position by her birth, and you cannot… Oh, Rickon.”

Before Shireen imagines what must be going on in the room, she runs. The tears beat down her face without an end in sight. Her heart is in pieces at the mere thought of Rickon admitting such a thing for she knows that she cannot reciprocate the feelings. She does, though. Unquestionably, she feels the same, but she is bound by duty to uphold her betrothal. Fighting the quaking of her hands, Shireen bolts the door, knowing that her fate has been sealed since she was marked with greyscale, and she would have been better off without any prospects of love.

Although Shireen contemplates the idea several times, she never touches blank parchment. It will be far too easy to weep over the page and beg for another betrothal, to spill her heart out into words and ask her father to go back on his word. The thought of that nearly kills her. While she can forsake her own honor, never will she throw her father’s into jeopardy. He has worked too hard at giving her hope and caring for her in spite of her affliction, and he does not deserve the added trouble of dealing with her heart. 

Shireen makes it so that she never sees fresh ink. Locking away all of her writing equipment, Shireen resigns herself to her fate. She visits Bran to tell him so, and he looks guilty about it while Jojen looks on confusedly. Putting even more effort into avoiding Rickon, Shireen plans out all her days for it, knowing when he is forced into his own lessons and when he is to practice out in the yard. Because of this, she returns to her refuge in the library, keeping to her schedule and refusing a distraction to keep her from it. However, she should have expected Shaggydog to seek her company, and she hears his whine from the door.

Slowly, she gets up. Surely the direwolf could find other ways to spend his time. Even though he often finds her, she knows that he returns to Rickon’s side eventually. Opening the door, Shireen beckons the direwolf in. To her greater surprise, he simply paces the hallway and sits.

“You don’t want to come in?” she asks, letting go of the door to cross her arms at the temperamental creature.

A hand appears on the door, and Shireen takes a step back as Rickon enters the room. “He’s scared,” Rickon says evenly. “He knows what I’m going to do, and he fears the outcome.”

Rickon reaches out for her hand, but she pulls away sharply. With a sigh, Rickon goes to bolt the door instead. Shireen steps back further, trying to think of an escape. There is a resigned acceptance on his face, and Shireen thinks it is far too solemn for him. Though, she will not speak it, she longs to see him smile again. It has been months since either of them has known true joy. Rickon steps to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. Shireen feels the effects of his touch immediately, but she pushes him away. “I am a promised woman,” she tells him firmly. “My honor will not be compromised for such games.”

His eyes narrow at her, and there is no longer and spark of brightness in them. Shireen wishes to take her words back, but Rickon looks as if only despair lives inside him now. “Your honor will never be compromised again, should you wish it,” he says.

The weight of his words settles into her, and Shireen feels as if he is here to sentence himself to death. She swallows hard, thinking that the fire is far too loud. “What do you mean?” she asks softly.

Rickon sighs, looking up to the ceiling before meeting her eyes. Again, there is no life in them, and Shireen feels as if a dead man stands before her. “I love you, Shireen,” he says simply. “And I cannot live without you. I will do everything in my power to win your hand if you will allow me. If you share an ounce of my emotions, I beg you to tell me.” He takes a deep breath, and Shireen can see his eyes swimming with tears. She lifts a hand to wipe away the first that falls, but he catches her wrist, pressing her fingers to his mouth. “ _Please_ , Shireen.”

Though her own eyes fill with tears, Shireen has already made this decision several times over. She knows her place. Without trusting her voice, she moves her head a fraction to the side.

Rickon squeezes his eyes shut tight, allowing several more tears to fall. “I’ll take my leave, then,” he whispers. “You’ll not see me again. I wish you every happiness.” He bows his head to hers, pressing his lips to her forehead for some time. She can feel his hand in her hair, holding her there, and the same desperation in his voice seeps into his touch. His tears don’t stop, and Rickon pulls himself away to head for the door. Sucking in a shaking breath, he says, “Shaggydog wants to stay with you. I trust you’ll care for him.”

Shireen feels the pull deeper in her stomach. She knows what he asks, and she is being ripped apart by everything in her. He means to abandon his direwolf—his connection to House Stark. He will set himself upon the wild and likely meet his end there, never returning. But as this decision has been made for him, so has hers.

“Rickon,” she mutters, making him freeze. His hand rests on the door, and he turns to her with an inkling of optimism in his eyes. Shireen breaks at that, knowing that it could never fill them both. With their fates written as such, she cannot have him, and it breaks her.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs, his voice cracking.

The desire is overwhelming in her, and she is consumed with the pain of her decision. But if he means to depart forever, then she will steal him one last time. Rushing at him, Shireen throws her arms around his neck, bringing their lips together. Rickon gives a little, pressing back into her, but when a sob breaks through Shireen, understanding floods over the both of them. This is their goodbye kiss. After this, they will never meet again. With the flood of anxiety at the thought, Shireen refuses to let him go. She crushes her mouth against his, and everything breaks inside her as he kisses her back. It is not a gentle kiss, nor is it romantic. It is the kiss that seals their fate apart from each other the second it breaks.

Shireen digs a hand into his hair, holding him close. In return, his arms lock around her, lifting her until they settle in a heap on a chair, pieced together in the most inappropriate way. Rickon kisses her with everything he has, and Shireen feels as if he is giving himself over entirely—allowing himself to become hollow in lieu of feeling this pain. He presses her over the arm of the chair, bending her to fit his body as he leans against her. His eyelashes beat against her cheeks, marking her with his tears, and she meets his gaze, closer than ever. The familiar shock of green greets her, and she can see that he is still holding onto one last shred of hope, one last chance at having her. 

Shireen shudders against him, clinging to him like a line tossed to the sea, though she wants to drown in him. Rickon supports her gently, dipping his tongue into her mouth and seeking out hers. He slowly explores her mouth, and Shireen feels the heat of him igniting a fire in her stomach, knotting together her insides into a feeling that is almost painful with the passion he gives. It is with the same heightened emotions that he finally pulls away from her, trying to know her intention, giving her his final plea.

“I’ll only go if you tell me to,” he says, leaning against her and holding her face to wipe away her tears. “If not, I will follow you to the ends of the world.”

His resolve kills her more than anything. Shireen knows that he will never go back on his word, that this promise to her will be kept. But she is a Baratheon woman bound by her honor, and though it will destroy them both, she shakes her head. Shireen spares him the words, the explanation, the excuse that they will be better off for it. She doesn’t believe a word of it herself for she knows that there is no cause that makes this infraction appropriate.

So she breaks herself along with him. “Go,” she tells him. Her entire body fights her, and her hands cling to him as she watches whatever hope he has die in front of her. She sees the light go out of his eyes as if she has struck a killing blow, and she knows the fact of it because she has just slain herself as well. Because she can never permit him to die without her. Because a life without him is worse than death.

The part of her that thought his strength would persist has been wrong. Shireen sees Rickon’s defeat before she feels it. He grips her face tight, crushing their lips together in something other than desperation. It is more primal, rawer, and it completely kills her. Rickon is no longer a desperate man, and she fears that he is no longer a man at all. Shireen thinks that she may have destroyed him beyond repair, and she is victim to the assault of destruction as well. His lips write ruin in every movement against her, and Shireen gladly accepts the role she has now. Rickon shakes with a sob as he breaks away from her, pressing their foreheads together hard and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Goodbye,” he whispers. He gives her a look that is not a look at all, and Shireen watches him sever all the ties that held him together. Rickon walks from the room, throwing open the door with all the power he has. She watches as he looks to his direwolf one last time, sparing a small stroke before he disappears. 

A loud sob escapes her, and she hears Rickon stop. Weeping into her arms, she prays for his return. She will take back all of her words. She will run away with him. She will abandon all that she is to be with him. The steps start up and fade away, leaving her destitute and shattered where she sits. Shaggydog moves forward to comfort her, but Shireen pushes him away.

“Go,” she tells him, her voice shaking. “You have to go, too.”

Shaggydog whines at her, poking her legs with his snout.

Shireen shakes her head, biting at her hand to keep herself composed. “ _Please_ ,” she says, praying that the direwolf understands. “He needs you.”

Shaggydog simply whines again, pressing his head on her lap and leaning against her. The weight pins her in place, and Shireen knows that this is what her life has come to. No longer does she hold back her tears, and she allows herself to weep for the loss of Rickon and everything he means to her. The direwolf seems to feel her pain, and he howls gently as she breaks over and over again with the knowledge of what she’s done.

The next fortnight, Shireen scarcely leaves her room. A large majority of her time is spent crying, and she feels as if her entire body is dried out from all the tears she shed. The physical pain is even worse. Shireen feels as if she has been beaten and dragged for miles because every inch of her aches for Rickon. Maester Luwin worries enough to tend to her, and it is easy to fake illness in her state. He leaves confused, seeing only the symptoms on the surface, though it is a wonder that he cannot see her broken heart as well.

Sansa and Arya pay her visits, talking aimlessly about matters in the keep. Sometimes, Sansa brings sewing and books with her, and Arya brings along a practice sword to show her the results of her lessons. Shireen keeps herself composed during these times, knowing that she cannot let on the source of her pains. However, both women notice Shaggydog, hard as he is to miss, and they question his presence in her room. Shireen makes her excuses, saying that he won’t leave her alone, but when Arya mentions that he’s more protective than usual, Shireen cannot give reason.

It takes another week for the Starks to realize that Rickon has not returned. Luckily, none of them think to ask her about his whereabouts, for Shireen does not think she can admit her involvement. Robb assures them that he will return as he always does, and Shireen feels his words rip through her with the knowledge that he will not. When several more weeks pass, and there has been no sightings of Rickon, Shireen hides so she won’t be questioned.

She seeks refuge in Bran’s chambers, knowing that the library holds no comfort now. Bran gives her a small look, but beckons her into his room. Today, Jojen is gone, and Shireen takes a seat on the edge of Bran’s bed. In an effort to appear unbiased, Shireen thinks that she must ask Bran about Rickon.

Bran sighs, leaning back into his pillows and looking over to Summer. “He’s never left without Shaggydog before,” Bran tells her. “Osha will often accompany him as well, but he would leave her behind sometimes. Never his direwolf. Seeing Shaggydog around the keep while he is gone… I worry for him. We all do.”

Shireen swallows hard. Bran has just confirmed her worst fear: that Rickon will be killed if he does not have Shaggydog. “Is he—Is it possible he’s still alive?” she asks.

“He is,” Bran confirms. “I can feel him. I know that he’s safe. None of us worry too much for him… Rickon always runs off. He is stronger than you think.”

The silence settles in. Discomfort grows inside her until the confession forces its way out. “Shaggydog follows me around the keep,” she whispers.

Bran gives her a soft smile. “I thought he might,” he says. Shireen gives him a questioning look and Bran explains. “We share a special bond. The direwolves are not our pets, and we are not their owners. We are connected to each other, bound by something that even we don’t understand… If I’m not mistaken, it is Rickon’s feelings for you that keep Shaggydog at your side. He believes himself in love with you.”

Shireen feels those words like a stab to her heart. Surely, Bran should have never mentioned any such thing. He should not be the one to drive a wedge into their betrothal, and Shireen feels as if he has other intentions here. Swallowing hard, Shireen tries to think of something to say, but the words don’t come. However, a scratch at the door draws her back. Bran gestures for her to let Shaggydog in. The direwolf immediately goes to her side, smelling at her skirts and licking her face. A soft smile appears on Bran’s face as he watches them.

“Tell me, my lady,” Bran starts slowly. “Why did you deny his offer?”

Shaking her head, Shireen cannot meet Bran’s eyes now. She breathes in as much air as she can. “It is not my place to change my betrothal,” she says. “I’ve no power to do so. Giving any hope otherwise would not be wise.”

Staring out the window, Shireen only sees Summer cross the room to leap onto the bed and sit over Bran’s legs. The snow falls around them, and Shireen knows that her time North is almost over.

“I lied,” Bran whispers.

Shireen turns sharply to him, unsure that she caught his words right.

“I lied about my condition,” he repeats. “Though it is true that my legs do not work, there are no other issues. I… I told the maester otherwise.”

“Why?” Shireen asks, shaking her head at him.

Bran gives her a weak smile. Slowly, he reaches for her hand, digging his thumbs into the flesh. “My heart belongs to another,” he tells her. “I—Rickon found out. He knows. My own affections would disgrace my family, but Rickon convinced me that you deserved better. He… _He_ suggested the lie. It would have broken our betrothal had you agreed. My father would give you leave to choose a husband as he has for my sisters. Rickon hoped that you would take it.”

A new wave of tears springs to her eyes, and Shireen does not stop them from falling. “I—the betrothal is not my decision,” she repeats. “Only my father—”

“Your father will understand, Shireen,” Bran says gently. Shireen can see his empathy in his eyes. Bran cares for her loss, and she knows what he is willing to give up for her. “He would not want you wed to an abomination like myself. You deserve a husband who will have you.”

“I—there is nothing wrong with you,” Shireen says. “You would—Rickon does not wish to be lord. He does not want a keep, and I cannot leave my post.”

Bran gives her a weak smile. “You do not give him enough credit,” he mumbles out. “Rickon understands the matter perfectly. He knows what the cost of having you is—he pointed it out himself. But Rickon would give up the North for you… Already, it seems he has given up his direwolf to you.”

Shireen feels the revelation rocking to her core. She did not understand the compassion of the Starks, the lengths to which they will go for each other. Even though she is not one of them by name, they have brought her into their pack, and she has been under their protection without knowing it. The tears come in full now, and Bran offers what support he can. He rubs her back in slow circles as she cries, as everything she has done wrong spills out of her in confused blubbering. Surely, Bran cannot comprehend a word of what she says, but he soothes her the best he can.

After she has torn apart every aspect of her life, Shireen sees only one way forward. She spares no time to think over her decision. She must act now. Grabbing onto Bran’s hand, Shireen presses a kiss to his fingers. “Thank you,” she mumbles.

Bran smiles at her, and it warms her. Shireen leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I’ve never deserved your kindness, Shireen,” Bran tells her. “Not when there was another so willing.”

Giving him a smile, Shireen leaves the room quickly. Shaggydog trails after her, and she plots out her next course of action. The maester’s chambers are blessedly empty when she arrives, and she scrambles to locate parchment and ink. Without a care for neatness or courtesies, Shireen scribbles across the paper as fast as she can, sealing the note sloppily and locating a raven to send it off.

At once, she runs for her rooms. Shaggydog waits patiently in front of her door, pushing it open as she nears. Shireen sweeps a hand out to push her fingers through his fur, but she hurries into her room. Scattered as her brain is, she cannot locate her boots. Luckily, Shaggydog senses her intentions and brings them to her. As she puts them on, Shaggydog brings her other things: a cloak, a bag, a knife, and gloves. Shireen accepts them all, thanking him and readying her things. 

It isn’t until she arrives at the gate of the keep that she realizes night has fallen, but she refuses to turn back now. Hefting her bag up, Shireen tightens the closing of her cloak and steps out of the safety of Winterfell, following Shaggydog as he leads her into the wolfswood. Shireen had taken a few trips out of Winterfell. However, all of those had been during the day, and she always had a large company with her. Even with Shaggydog’s presence scaring away potential predators, Shireen feels a sense of foreboding when the snow crunches under her feet as she presses on.

Shaggydog never leaves her side, occasionally growling at unseen threats. When the major issues of her decision hit her, Shireen thinks herself foolish for ever trying to leave on her own. Still, Shaggydog curls around her, keeping her as warm as possible during the dead of night. The cold cuts through her, and she struggles to keep going.

The direwolf dotes on her. Every night, he brings her his kills. However, Shireen has never learned to dress or prepare food herself, and the effort does her no good. She tries to pick at the bloody meat but finds that she cannot stomach it. The next two nights, Shaggydog brings her materials to start a fire. Shireen tries the best she can, but she cannot manage it with her gloves on. Twice, she removes her gloves to try, but she fares no better and gives up the cause. After days of going with nearly nothing to eat, Shireen thinks herself likely to starve to death before completing her quest.

Shaggydog refuses to give up on her, leading her over to plants filled with berries and digging up roots and vegetables for her to eat. With food in her belly, she travels better, moving through the snow as best she can, but feeling the permanent effects of exposure to the frozen wilderness.

Distantly, Shireen thinks of the panic she has likely induced at the keep. Her shame at admitting that she forced Rickon away would have ruined her, and she needs to complete the quest on her own. She needs to be responsible for bringing him back as she was for sending him away. Though she feels colder as the days pass, she does not stop moving forward, following Shaggydog and hoping that he leads her to Rickon.

After a fortnight, Shireen feels the idiocy of her decision. Rickon had been gone for nearly three months. He was experienced in traveling outside Winterfell. He could be anywhere in the North, and it was nearly as big as the whole South. Shireen has only managed to come close to freezing and starving herself to death. 

When the sun begins to set again, Shireen accepts her losses, sending Shaggydog off to find more food. She follows him sluggishly. Her movements have become slower every day, and she feels as if she is slowly freezing from the inside out. A sharp snap comes from behind her, and hope springs to life inside of her. Without any thought, she runs to the noise, hoping that Rickon has somehow managed to find her. Slowing slightly, Shireen looks around for the source of the noise. However, it comes from all around her. Shireen panics, knowing that multiple people have to be here.

Clumsily, she pulls out her knife, trying to bring her lessons with Arya to the forefront of her mind. Shireen tries to steady the hand that holds the knife. The trembling becomes unavoidable when three men surround her, all holding weapons of their own.

“Now, a pretty lady like you comes with a guard,” one of them says. He grins at her, and Shireen feels the fear in the pit of her stomach. She takes a hasty step back, trying to brandish her knife.

“Oh, the lady is alone,” the man to her left says. He chuckles, sheathing his weapon to make a grab at her. “That means no one will hear you scream.”

He roughly takes her by the shoulders. Though Shireen slashes at him and draws blood from his arm, he ignores the pain to force her around. The other two men take slow steps toward her, and even though Shireen knows that her throat is raw, she tries to scream, to do anything that will bring her help. Only a feeble, weak sound leaves her, and Shireen feels the effort cutting through her neck.

This only proves to make the men laugh at her, continuing their advance and taking amusement from her terror. Shireen tries to fight her way out, but they easily disarm her. Shireen’s breath shortens as they come, and she feels that this fate is worse than death. When one of the men is close enough, he grabs her by the chin and forces her to look at him. He leans into her with a sadistic smile on his lips, but before he says anything, a blade sprouts from his chest. His mouth drops open in shock, and the men look at him in confusion.

With a snarl, Shaggydog leaps into the clearing, taking down the other man and ripping out his throat. Shireen feels the grip on her shoulders slacken, and she makes to run. However, the remaining man wraps an arm around her, pressing a blade to her throat. In front of her, Shireen watches the blade disappear from the man’s chest, and he falls to the ground.

Behind him stands a furious Rickon, wielding a bloodied blade. He looks fit to be a wildling as these men are, but his anger is almost palpable in the coming darkness. Rickon lowers the blade slowly, staring down the man behind her. Not once does he look to her, but that does nothing to stop her heart trying to beat out of her chest. Shireen is overjoyed to find him alive, breathing, and saving her once more.

“One step closer and I kill the girl,” he threatens. “Then, neither of us can have her. But I’d be willing to share.”

Rickon scoffs, spinning his sword slowly. He lets the tip drag against the snow, making a dark mark there that glows in the light of the moon. “I’ll give you an even fight for her,” he says, a challenging look on his face. “One on one.”

The man seems to consider it. Then, Shireen feels him chuckle. “You call off your direwolf,” he says. “And I’ll kill you like the boy you are.” He makes the mistake of pointing his blade at Rickon. An instant later, his arm is ripped from his body between Shaggydog’s teeth. He screams, tossing Shireen down into the snow. 

She has no time to dampen the fall, and she feels shards of ice nearly cutting into her face. For the first time in her life, she is thankful for her greyscale, knowing that it has stopped her from harm. Still, she tries to push herself up, turning to find Rickon because she’s worried he’ll leave again. He stands tall, and the man who held her is on his knees, pleading for his life. Rickon, however, only gives him the mercy of a quick death and slices his head off.

Shaggydog returns to her, pushing her to her feet and licking at her face. Shireen shakes the snow from her, looking up to find Rickon cleaning off his blade against the breeches of one of the slain men. He glances up at her but looks down just as quickly. Rickon takes his time cleaning the blade, sheathing it before standing. Shireen takes a single step forward, pausing when Rickon’s look turns to a glare. 

“Are you mad?” he asks. There is a definite coldness to his voice that she didn’t expect. “What are you doing out here?”

“I—” Shireen swallows hard, trying to put her head on straight. Shaggydog presses his head to her back, forcing her forward. “I came to find you.”

Rickon’s eyes narrow at her, softening slightly. He looks around the clearing. “Who else came with you?” 

Shaking her head fiercely, Shireen looks down at her hands. She would twist her fingers together if she felt she could manage it. “No one,” she tells him. “I came alone… with Shaggydog.”

At his name, the direwolf steps forward, greeting Rickon. Shireen watches them, seeing a small smile grow on Rickon’s face. He buries his face into Shaggydog’s coat, hugging his direwolf. Then, he turns to Shireen. His mouth opens, but he says nothing. Shireen shuts her eyes tight, wondering what she should have expected from this. “I expect you want me to return for your wedding?” he asks, looking back to the snow.

“In a sense,” Shireen replies. Rickon gives her a confused look. “I—Bran told me what you did,” she starts slowly. “I was foolish to reject your offer when it was laid out to me.”

Rickon shakes his head. “You had your honor,” he says. Shireen sees that he has struggled with her decision, but he’s accepted it for what it is. That breaks her again, seeing him doubt her when she’s come all this way. “I should have never tried to make you question it. You did your duty.”

Shireen swallows hard. The rift between them is larger than she thought, and it pains her to be so far away from him when he is so close. “I wrote to my father,” she says, her voice low as the darkness sets in around her. “I told him that I will marry you and no one else. I will abandon my inheritance for you. I-I want you to steal me, Rickon.”

Rickon gives her a small smile, but he shakes his head. “I will not do you dishonor, my lady,” he says. He walks past her, looking around in the darkness. “Allow me to escort you back to Winterfell.”

Shireen does not have the strength in her to protest, not when she spent so long rejecting him for the same reasons. Rickon brushes past her, scratching Shaggydog behind the ears. The direwolf whines at him, but Rickon presses on. He sends Shaggydog off to find shelter and offers her some salted beef from his own pack. Shireen takes it eagerly, having eaten little for the past fortnight. Then, Rickon starts leading her through the wood to a spot where Shaggydog has located a small cave. Shireen shivers and is freezing by the time they get there. She pulls her cloak about her as tight as she can, trying to trap in the little heat she has. Rickon tosses his things inside, turning to her.

“It’s small,” he says, “but it’ll keep us safe for the night.” 

Finally, he takes her hand, pulling her forward. Shireen clutches to him, mostly for just being nearer to him, but partly because she can feel his warmth through her gloves. Rickon frowns at her, tugging her close and removing her glove. She isn’t sure how he can see anything in the darkness, but examines her hand before he wraps his hands over hers. Then, he brings it to his mouth and breathes hot air over her fingers. Shireen feels the warmth shoot through her, and she suddenly realizes how cold she is. Rickon shoves her glove back on, pulling her into a hug. The warmth of him fills her, and Shireen feels as if she is being swallowed by fire. Desperately, she clings to him, hoping that this embrace will never end.

“You’re freezing,” Rickon says simply, rubbing his hands across her back. One of his hands holds the back of her head, and he presses her into his neck. “Oh, Shireen…”

A sob builds in her, and she is again in ruin from him. His touches build her up and tear her apart. Shireen refuses to lose him again. However, Rickon draws away. He pulls off his cloak and wraps it over her shoulders, bundling her up and seating her near Shaggydog. Then, he runs off in the darkness, and Shireen fears that he will never return. Shireen drifts off against Shaggydog’s fur, but she stirs moments later when Rickon shakes her shoulder.

“Come,” he tells her. “’lest you freeze.” Rickon pulls her into the cave, forcing her down onto his cloak that he laid out. Shireen can hear crunching as she sits, and she makes to lie down, but Rickon stops her. He looks strained, like he is thinking through a difficult decision. “Shireen… do you trust me?”

“Absolutely,” Shireen replies. Her voice is weaker than she’d like, but she moves nearer to give her words weight.

Rickon nods slowly. He tucks her further into her cloak, and then he begins to remove his clothes. Shireen is taken aback by his actions, wondering what he means by this. She drops her mouth open to ask what his intentions are, but he laughs at her before she says anything. “So you don’t freeze,” he says, keeping his smallclothes on. 

Then, he reaches for her. Shireen hastily removes her cloak and hands it to him. Rickon laughs again, and his hands move past her cloak, finding the ties of her dress. Shireen flinches away. “What are you doing?” she asks, draping the cloak over him.

Rickon rolls his eyes, grabbing her hands and removing her gloves. He presses her hands flat against his stomach. The pure heat of him shocks her, but Shireen leans into him. She moves her hands over his stomach, turning them over to warm them against his skin. When she glances up, Rickon is smiling at her, tugging open her gown. Shireen helps him remove it, eager to get as close to him as possible. She tries to toss her gown aside, but Rickon takes it from her. He bundles them up together under her cloak and lays the gown over their feet for added protection. His own clothes and pack have become their pillow, and she hears him let out a low whistle. Shaggydog crawls over to rest over their feet. Shireen moves entirely up against him, wrapping her arms around him to pull him closer. 

His warmth completely fills the small space he’s tucked them into, and Shireen melts against him. Rickon _tsk_ s at her and pulls her arms from around him, tucking her arms in between them. Shireen moves into him, but Rickon is oddly still against her, considering that they are both in their smallclothes. Chancing a look up, Shireen sees that Rickon is not even looking at her. He looks up at the low ceiling, blinking slowly in the low light of the moon.

Shireen tries to raise a hand to stroke his face, but he grabs it quickly, pressing it against his chest. Sighing, Shireen looks down, trying to sort through her thoughts. Has she already destroyed any chance they have of being together?

“Rickon?” she mumbles. He glances down at her, and Shireen can see the pain in his expression. “Do you hate me?”

He closes his eyes shut. Shireen waits for his response, feeling that the time that passes only indicates his distaste for her after all she has done. But when he looks back at her, Shireen is shot through with the warmth in his eyes. His hands come alive then, moving over her bare back and driving heat into her body. Shireen shudders against him, and he presses her close, holding her head to his neck. Though Shireen feels the safety and warmth of being nestled against him, her eyes become wet and she starts to cry softly.

Rickon breathes in a shaky breath, shushing her gently and keeping her locked against him. “I could never, my lady,” he says softly. His fingers trace slow paths through her hair, and Shireen lets her hands down drop lower to his stomach, pushing away just slightly so she can look at him. A small smile rests on his face, and he reaches up to brush away her tears. At the same time, Shireen tries to wrap her arms around him again, but Rickon catches her hands, bringing them back between them. “I’m simply infuriated that you would bring yourself so close to death. You’re going to lose your fingers like that.”

Glancing down at her hands, Shireen notices the discoloration of them, how unnaturally dark they look in the shadows of the cave. Rickon grabs her hands again, pressing them to his mouth and blowing hot air over them. He rubs them between his palms for good measure before placing them back over his chest.

“How do you know?” she asks quietly.

With a sigh, Rickon looks back at her. “I nearly froze to death when I was a boy,” he tells her. “Back when I first ran off… Osha found me and brought me back from the brink of death. When she learned that I would keep running off, she taught me to hunt and survive. I like being out here.”

Tears spring back to Shireen’s eyes. Again, she is made all too aware of Rickon’s preference for the wild. He enjoys his time out here, thrives in it, even. She could never give him this freedom with her position. Letting out a heavy sigh, Shireen looks up at him. “I can’t marry you,” she mumbles.

“Why not?” Rickon asks. There’s an understanding in his eyes that she isn’t prepared for, and Shireen thinks that jests with her.

Shaking her head, Shireen tries to burrow in him, to be lost in him before giving him up again. “I’m not suited for this,” she whispers out. “I could never survive. I’m destined for life in a keep playing lady to some lord. I can’t give you your freedom, and you love it so.”

Rickon pulls her tight into a hug. He half-wraps his legs around her as well, warming her more. “No, Shireen,” he replies. “I enjoy this. But I love you. I will give up all of this for you.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Shireen says, her voice shaking with her tears.

“But I will,” Rickon says, as if it is the simplest matter in the world. “I will live in a keep with you, tend to the lands for you, protect you, and love you until the end of my days.”

Shireen laughs through her tears. “You said you wouldn’t steal me,” she points out.

“Never,” Rickon confirms. He holds her by the face to get a good look at her, spreading his heat through her. “You are a proper lady, and I will wed you as such.”

The shock of that runs through her. Already, his hands have begun to move, and Shireen knows without a doubt that she wants him, that she will have him. Rickon bends himself around her, breathing life into her neck. She can feel all the heat his body provides permeating the cold that hasn’t left her for weeks. It makes her dizzier than a warm bath, and Shireen craves for more of him, for everything she can give to make them closer. Trailing her hands down his chest, Shireen seeks out his smallclothes, but Rickon quickly pulls her hands away.

Before he can reprimand her, she says, “Bed me.”

Rickon laughs, then, almost too loud for the quiet of their surroundings. He tucks her back against him, trapping her away from getting at him. “Shireen, you are a lady,” Rickon repeats. “I’ll not be rutting against you in a cave. You deserve a proper featherbed.”

Her cheeks flush red at his words, despite the fact that she had just asked the same from him. Rickon notices the color, though, and he brushes his hands over her face. “Warm me, then,” Shireen tells him, longing for his intimacy. “Breathe life into me.”

Smirking at her, Rickon draws away. He lightly traces his fingers down her back. “Where, my lady?”

“My lips,” Shireen says, feeling bold.

She hears the faint sound of his tongue clicking, and it sends a shiver down her spine. Rickon moves slowly, though, inclining his head toward hers. His hands beat him there, and his fingers lightly move over her mouth, drawing over the outline of her lips. Holding her face, Rickon moves into her until their lips are barely touching, and Shireen feels as if she is a match waiting to be struck. Her hands fidget against his chest, her nails digging into his flesh.

“These, my lady?” Rickon whispers, driving her mad at his proximity.

“Yes,” Shireen responds, pressing against him. She pushes herself up as much as she can, forcing their lips together. The bliss of it, of kissing him, of having him encompasses her. Although she relaxes from it, from the release of her anticipation, Rickon moves into her.

His mouth covers hers perfectly, moving against her in a rhythm that is far too familiar. It makes her toes curl, and she tries to reach for him again, to hold him close. Rickon laughs into her mouth, grabbing her hands to place between their chests once more. Then, his hands span her back, pressing her tight against him as his tongue slips into her mouth. The taste of him fills her, and Shireen wonders how she ever thought she could live without it. Rickon is more intoxicating than the strongest wine, and she wants nothing more than to be drunk off his kisses every day for the rest of her life.

Their heavy breathing between kisses fills the cave, and Shireen feels heat growing all around them. Rickon is attentive to her, kissing her deeply and fully, making her head swim at the thought. On one devastatingly slow movement, Shireen moans against his mouth, but that only proves to spur him on more. Rickon locks his arms around her body, and he begins to spread kisses all over her face and down her neck. Though Shireen wishes for him to press on and kiss her everywhere, he stops before going too far, returning to her lips and kissing her fiercely.

“You’ll catch a chill, my lady,” he mumbles against her mouth.

“You’ll warm me,” Shireen responds.

Rickon laughs, bowing his head down to her shoulder and pressing her close. “Aye,” he agrees. “But perhaps we ought to wait for you to be safe, first.”

Shireen smiles at him, glad to be filled with his heat. “I’m safe with you,” she mumbles.

His chest rumbles against her, moving with his laugh. Rickon tucks himself back against her. He is entirely against her, every inch of their skin pressed together that is possible. Shireen feels like she is floating from the sensations, all of her nerves being attacked in the most pleasing way. She realizes now what he meant when she asked him to steal her. He had declined because he doesn’t want her to be stolen. Rickon wants to wed her properly. “I will keep you safe, Shireen,” he tells her. Then, he kisses her forehead.

Squirming against him, Shireen nudges against his face, kissing his nose. Rickon looks down at her, and Shireen’ cannot get over seeing his eyes bright and alive again. With a grin, Shireen kisses him again, closer to his mouth this time. “I love you.”

Rickon kisses her back, fully and gently, setting her senses on fire. He grins at her, leaning in close. “I love you, too,” he replies. He presses her back against him, humming slightly. “You should rest now. We’ve a long journey tomorrow.”

In the morning, Shireen is only a little surprised to find Rickon still pressed against her. He holds her tight, even though he is still claimed by sleep. Shireen watches the rise and fall of his chest, seeing him fully relaxed even though they are in a small cave. It is a joy to be ensconced in him, and Shireen hopes to spend the remainder of her life like this. Rickon wakes slowly, a large smile covering his face the moment he sees her. Shireen smiles back at him, stealing a kiss first thing. He laughs softly, hugging her close. Then, he pulls out her hands one at a time, examining them thoroughly. Rickon kisses them before putting them back.

Shireen raises an eyebrow at him. “Am I better?” she asks.

Rickon twists his mouth in thought. “Nearly,” he says. “But I should keep you warm again tonight. Just in case.”

“Of course,” Shireen replies, giggling when he kisses her swiftly before he sits up.

Though he is nearly naked in the freezing temperatures, it doesn’t seem to affect him. He dresses easily enough, as if he is immune to the cold. Shireen stares on in wonder, wrapping herself in her cloak. Rickon catches her staring, and he shoots a cocky smile at her. “You’ll need to dress,” he tells her. “I’d like to be back at Winterfell soon.”

Sitting up, Shireen tucks the cloak around herself. “Why is that?” she asks, folding her feet to keep them covered.

Rickon picks up her dress, sorting through the fabric to stuff it over her head. “Because we have a trip to the godswood to make,” he tells her.

Shuffling through her dress, Shireen pulls it on quickly, allowing her cloak to be trapped around her legs. She ties it easily enough, and Rickon pulls the cloak from her, offering her boots instead. She takes them, giving him a look. “Why so eager?” she asks.

Rickon crouches up, shaking out the cloak and tossing it over her shoulders. “Because once I’ve wedded and bedded you, no one will deny our marriage,” he says, winking at her.

Heat rises to her face at his words, hearing the truth of it from him. Though, she knows that she is like to be shamed by her family for making such a decision, nothing will stop her from having him now. She finishes dressing as Rickon packs their things, placing them over his back. He holds out a hand to her, pulling her out of the cave and into the fresh snow.

“How long will it be?” she asks. “I was out for a fortnight searching for you.”

That makes Rickon laugh, and he corners her against Shaggydog before kissing her. “You silly girl,” he says. “Shaggydog doesn’t mind a rider.”

Shireen steps back into the direwolf, frowning at Rickon. “He’s a direwolf,” she tells him. Rickon nods. Her jaw drops. “I can’t ride a—Rickon!”

He grabs her by the waist, lifting her onto a seated Shaggydog. Though he is down on all fours, it is still a great height. Rickon climbs up behind her, seating her properly and wrapping his arms around her. Shaggydog stands then, and Shireen grasps at Rickon’s legs to keep herself steady. Leaning forward, Rickon kisses her greyscale. “You can ride me, too,” he says, and Shireen can hear the implications layering his voice. She would make to hit him if she didn’t fear falling. “But Shaggydog will get us back faster.”

Shireen has no reason to doubt Rickon, especially when she is witness to the speed of Shaggydog. They race through the snow all day. Rickon gives Shaggydog no direction, but he is ever alert, looking around as they travel. For another two nights, they sleep together in small caves. Rickon admits that there is no reason for them to be undressed, but Shireen figures she can throw some doubt into that, helping him out of his clothes and distracting him with kisses. Laughter fills him, just as his heat fills her, and he happily moves her as close as he can.

Each night, Shireen postpones their sleep. She questions him incessantly about anything and everything she can think of. He answers all of her questions, looking somewhat amused at what crosses her mind.

Though Shireen is largely interested in distracting him as much as possible, Rickon is the same. He doesn’t always wait for the safety of nightfall, though. A few times, when they stop for food of water, Rickon will press her up against a tree and kiss her senseless. His hands wander even more now, dropping lower down her back and higher up her ribs every time. Shireen wants to break that barrier as well, but Rickon stops himself by giving her a quick kiss and stepping away. It frustrates Shireen to no end, and she craves his touch.

“Why must you torture me?” she asks, watching him shy away. His face is flushed, and his tongue runs over his lips even though it was just in her mouth. She can feel her skin quickly growing colder now that the heat of his hands no longer rests over her ribs. It makes her ache for him, and Shireen wishes to throw out every shred of propriety she has for him.

Rickon clears his throat, running a hand through his outgrown hair. He looks like a boy being caught stealing treats from the kitchens. Again, Shireen finds herself snared by his charms, and she steps closer to him. Rickon raises his hands in surrender, taking a step back. A small sound leaves him when she runs her hands over his sides. It is empowering to see him react so strongly under her touch. Leaning onto the tips of her toes, Shireen kisses him gently, drawing away and watching him lean toward her as she goes.

“We are almost to Winterfell, my lady,” he whispers, still trying to follow her for more kisses.

Shireen frowns. “Our time is nearly up.”

Rickon looks at her then, an oddly playful expression despite her words. “Our time is just beginning,” he corrects. “Soon, I will have you as a wife, and none will take you from me.”


	5. The Final Hurdle

As soon as the keep of Winterfell is in sight, the first search party meets them. Rickon holds tight to Shireen the entire time, his arm locked like a vice over her stomach and he holds her firmly against him. Riding in through the gates, Shireen sees quite a number of the residents of Winterfell coming out, and he leads Shaggydog around them as best he can, ultimately making way for the godswood. She thinks that she probably looks a mess from her weeks of travel. When Rickon’s grip tightens around her, Shireen looks around for the source of his annoyance. The Starks are spilling out of the keep, direwolves in tow, and Shireen can see them looking mixed between relieved, exasperated, and worried. To Shireen’s relief, Sansa approaches them first.

“You need a bath,” Sansa says pointedly. She gives Shireen a significant look before looking over her brother. “The both of you.”

Rickon’s chest rumbles against her back. “We’ve somewhere to be,” he tells her, nudging Shaggydog forward.

Sansa puts her hands on her hips, and Lady comes forward behind her. “There is time later,” she says firmly. Seeing no give from Rickon, she turns to Shireen to repeat her plea. “Shireen?”

Shireen turns in the little space she has to look over her shoulder at Rickon. “We have time,” she tells him. “And we should clean up.”

Rickon’s gaze softens slightly, and Shireen sees the warmth shoot through them. He bows into her, pressing against her face. “You’re mine,” he says possessively.

Nodding, Shireen reaches up to dig a hand through his hair. “I am,” she tells him.

The grip on her slackens, and Shireen means to search for a means off of Shaggydog. Rickon stops her by taking her face in his hands and kissing her fully in view of all the residents of Winterfell. Though it is quick, the kiss is spiked through with fire, and Shireen feels dizzy from the heat of it. “Mine,” Rickon repeats, giving her an intense look before sliding off the direwolf and helping her down.

“Come, Shireen,” Sansa says, holding out a hand. “I’ve had a bath prepared for your return.”

Though Shireen firmly believes that no bath could ever be as warm as Rickon, she looks forward to finally being clean again. She takes Sansa’s hand, giving Rickon a quick look, and heads off into the keep. They go through the halls quickly, ending up in Sansa’s room. After bolting the door behind them, Sansa sits on the bed, giving Shireen a significant look.

“You’re not wed then, truly?” she asks.

Shireen bites at her lip, shaking her head. Though Sansa smiles, Shireen wonders what it would mean had she come back with a husband instead of a different intended. It delights her to think that it will be Rickon now, that she changed the course of her life when she ran from Winterfell. “Why your rooms?” she asks, untying her gown and gravitating toward the lukewarm bath.

Sansa laughs, lying back and allowing Shireen some semblance of privacy for her bath. “Oh, Rickon’s probably pounding on your door right now,” she says. Sansa shoots her a grin as she sinks into the water. Shireen busies herself with the soap while Sansa looks to the ceiling. “I’ll bet anything that he’s looking to sneak into your bath or steal you off to the godswood at the first chance. We’re just hoping that Robb can talk him into a proper bath before anything.”

“You’ll let us be wed?” Shireen asks, dipping her hair into the water.

A loud scoff comes from Sansa. “As if we’ve ever been able to stop Rickon from doing what he wants.” Sansa walks over then, pulling up her sleeves and helping Shireen with her hair. “You gave us a fright, running off. My parents sent a search party out for you immediately, but they found nothing. We thought you died.”

“I—no. Shaggydog cared for me,” Shireen mumbles.

“Oh, that’s what Bran said,” Sansa remarks. “You’d think he’d be more peeved about losing his betrothal, but he’s ecstatic about going to be a ward at Greywater Watch. Of course, we’re still waiting to see what your father wrote before making any final decisions.”

“My father wrote back?” Shireen asks, sitting up abruptly and splashing quite a bit of water from the tub.

With a firm hand, Sansa pushes Shireen back into the tub. “You really do need a bath,” she says. “And there’s plenty of time to settle matters when you’re clean.”

Shireen groans, becoming incredibly annoyed at Sansa’s insistence. She sits through her bath impatiently, waiting for a chance to find the letter from her father and read through it. Unfortunately, Sansa takes her time, giving Shireen an extremely thorough cleaning and making sure that she has no trace of dirt on her. When Sansa finally declares Shireen clean, she springs from the bath, taking the sheet that Sansa throws at her and drying off as quickly as possible. She wrings out her hair the best she can, leaving it damp over her shoulders. Sansa tosses her clothing to put on, and Shireen manages it quickly, having become quite skilled at dressing herself over the years. Sansa turns to help her as she’s tying up the last of the laces.

“Boots?” Shireen asks, flicking out her hair and sending streaks of water in all directions.

Sansa gives her a strange look before placing a pair of boots before her. “I see lacking handmaidens served you well,” she says, helping Shireen step into her boots. “Or are you that eager to wed my brother?”

“I am eager to hear from my father,” Shireen responds, making for the door. She grasps at the handle and cracks it open a tiny amount before turning back to Sansa. The door is pushed from her grasp, and a hand snags her wrist, pulling her out of the room. Shireen squeals, finding herself in the hold of Rickon.

His hair is also wet, though a few drops of water still fall from his outgrown curls. The scent of soap completely fills her as he wraps his arms around her waist, hugging her tight against his chest. Rickon kisses her greyscale before slowly pulling away. “Oh, you’re safe,” he breathes out, as if she has survived another wildling attack instead of a bath. Taking her face between his hands, he kisses her. “Will you be mine now?”

“I will,” Shireen agrees, nodding at him. She reaches up to grab his hands, lowering them. Rickon grins at her, leaning in and kissing her again. His happiness and joy seeps into her, filling her with similar enthusiasm. He tugs at her hands, and Shireen pulls him back. “There was a raven from my father,” she explains, seeing the confusion in his eyes. “Couldn’t we see his message first?”

Rickon shakes his head slowly, sending droplets of water everywhere. “What if he doesn’t agree?” he mumbles. “I… you’re _mine_ , Shireen.”

Shireen can sense his desperation growing, and she knows that this is his ultimate fear. More than losing her to death, he fears that he will never be allowed to have her on the word of her father. Tugging at his hands, Shireen pulls his focus back, meeting his bright eyes and giving him a comforting smile. “His concern is Storm’s End,” Shireen tells him, “and having an heir. Should I be named heir, I will need to have children, and with Bran’s condition—”

“ _He lied_ ,” Rickon says firmly, “and should anyone find out—”

“No will find out if you stop talking about it in corridors,” Sansa says loudly, making the both of them jump. “And Father’s been arranging your marriage since Shireen ran off to find you. Now, as much as Lord Manderly will hate it, we’d prefer to see you two happy. So if you could stop arguing and just see what the situation actually is, we can tend to matters at hand.”

Rickon shakes his head at his sister, taking Shireen’s hand firmly and leading her down the hall. Shireen hurries to keep pace with him, and she sees a look of mixed emotions on his face. His worry and concern is clear as day, and Shireen can see the panic in him mounting. Rickon lacks faith in the system. He always has. Where he has freedoms to run away as he pleases, he knows the strict rules of lords as well. He knows the firm boundaries drawn by lords and their unwillingness to change decrees in place. Shireen wonders if he also knows the lengths to which she will go for him. When he pauses outside his father’s chambers, she pulls him back sharply. Rickon still wears a mask of despair. He swallows hard and she sees his throat moving. Shireen lifts a hand to place it over his neck.

“No matter what my father’s message says,” she starts slowly, “I will wed you.”

Rickon shakes his head slowly. “But—”

“No, Rickon,” Shireen says firmly. “I will _only_ wed you. Even if we run off to the wolfswood together and abandon everything else. I will go with you.” Leaning into him, Shireen presses a soft kiss to his lips, begging him to understand her meaning. Finally, the spark of optimism returns, and Rickon moves against her. His hands circle her waist, holding her against him. When he pulls away, his eyes are full of tenderness and gentleness she has never seen before.

Rickon brushes his thumb over her lips. He kisses her cheek. “No,” he tells her. “No more running. I’ll go to Storm’s End.”

Shireen cannot stop her mouth from dropping open, and Rickon grins at her. Lunging at him, Shireen throws her arms around his neck, kissing him full on the mouth. She peppers kisses all over his face, holding him as close as possible. “Oh, you will?” she asks.

The smile that spreads across Rickon’s face shoots straight to her core, and Shireen feels how sincere his words are. Never did she allow herself to consider the potential of a happy marriage with true love, but she has somehow stumbled into the perfection that ladies only wish for. Even if she needs to spend weeks writing to her father and vying for Rickon’s hand, she will do so, and she will do everything in order to have him. 

When they finally release each other, Rickon gives her a smile. Shireen returns it in full, taking his hand before knocking on the door to his father’s chambers. The door opens immediately, making Shireen jump back toward Rickon. He laughs, placing a hand over her waist and pushing her into the room. The only people in the room are his parents, and they both have smiles on their faces.

“Thank you for returning,” Ned says, looking pointedly at his son. “The both of you.”

Rickon laughs again. “Well, I had to bring her back.”

Catelyn purses her lips, and Shireen pushes down the urge to ask the question that’s springing to the forefront of her mind. Taking a deep breath, Shireen turns to look at Rickon. He still has a wide smile on his face, and he has yet to take his hands off her. Ned’s eyes drift down to them, but he doesn’t say anything. After closing the door behind them, Catelyn walks back over to her husband. “So you weren’t just running from a marriage?” she asks.

Shireen is surprised to see that the question isn’t directed at her. She turns back to Rickon sharply, watching him shake his head.

“I was only ever going to run toward her,” he says, wrapping his arms over her waist. Despite the closed door and the relative privacy, she feels the lack of propriety is inappropriate. Catelyn seems torn as well, wearing a mixture of concern and joy on her face. “I’ll only marry her. No one else.”

“Well, Bran has no complaints,” Ned says. He takes a deep breath, standing up and walking to his desk. “Lord Manderly will certainly have his own, though we do not. I’m willing to write word in Rickon’s favor, if Shireen hasn’t managed to do so already.”

He raises a sealed message and Shireen steps forward immediately, a bundle of nerves building in her stomach. “I did send word,” she mumbles, moving toward the familiar Baratheon seal. “Could I…?”

Ned hands out the message, and Shireen stares down at the wax for what feels like hours until Rickon places a hand on her shoulder. He squeezes it slightly, and Shireen lets out a huge breath of air, tearing through the seal. 

_Shireen,_

_The issue of your betrothal was always one of concern for me, particularly given your greyscale. The Starks are a noble and honorable family, and they have always stayed true to their word. While I have no qualms regarding an alteration to your betrothal, I don’t think Eddard Stark is like to sever the tie, particularly if multiple are involved. As you requested, I grant you leave to negotiate your own betrothal, though I insist that you do so quickly._

_Your mother has fallen ill. Her health has been steadily declining over the past two moons, and Maester Cressen fears that she will not be with us much longer. She has requested your return, so she can see you before then, and I believe she would like to see you wed as well. Her concern over having an heir for Storm’s End has not declined, and we wish to see your return._

_Please send word of your betrothal and plans to travel soon._

_Stannis Baratheon  
Lord of Storm’s End_

As far as word from her father went, it was more elaborate than she ever expected. Thinking that she perhaps read something incorrectly, Shireen reads it over two more times. She skips past the odd formality of an exchange between father and daughter and shoots straight to the meaning of it. She is welcome to arrange her own marriage. Blindly, she reaches out for Rickon’s hand, and he clutches on quickly. Her mother is ill, and she needs to return home soon. Shireen turns to find Lord and Lady Stark.

“When did you receive the raven?” she asks.

Catelyn and Ned exchange a look. “Three days ago,” Catelyn says. “We decided to wait on sending word of your disappearance.”

Shireen’s mind is reeling. Three days isn’t much time, particularly not compared to the eight weeks that it took her to get to Winterfell. They could make it up easily. If they didn’t take a large traveling party, they could get to Storm’s End quickly. Shireen starts planning their trip, staring down at the parchment as she organizes her thoughts. Glancing up to Rickon, she sees a look of worry on his face.

“He agreed,” Shireen tells him, giving him a quick smile. It quickly fades into a frown. “I can negotiate my marriage…”

Rickon leans down to look her evenly in the face. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “I’ve not agreed to a betrothal. We can be wed.”

Shireen looks over to Ned, as if expecting him to read her thoughts. He misses the mark. “It’s true,” he says. “We declined Lord Manderly’s request of a betrothal. You have my blessing to be wed.”

With another quick smile, Shireen looks back down to the parchment. The meaning of her father’s word sinks in, and she wonders if her reckless actions have cost her ever seeing her mother again. Tears spring to her eyes, and Shireen looks to Rickon for help. He shakes his head gently, reaching around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, combing her hair back. His fingers catch on the moisture in her hair, and he eases through it, soothing her. “Just tell me.”

Opening her mouth, Shireen cannot make the noises come. Weakly, she holds up the parchment. Rickon turns her slightly, freeing one of his hands and taking the message. He doesn’t stop the movement against her hair, and Shireen presses into his chest as he reads. She hears him mumbling softly under his breath, tracing the sounds out and forming them as quickly as possible. He sighs loudly, pressing his mouth to the crown of her head. Then, he holds out the parchment to his father.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” he declares. “Just us. We’ll ride Shaggy and get there twice as fast.”

“Wouldn’t a ship be—” Catelyn starts.

Rickon smirks. “Lord Manderly won’t want to see me in White Harbor,” he says. “Besides, I don’t think there’s a ship that can best a direwolf. We’ll take weapons. I’ll protect her.”

Shireen pulls away gently, trying to get a good look at him. Ned clears his throat. “You should have traveling companions.”

“There’s no time,” Rickon says. “We need to get there soon. Tomorrow, if possible. Shaggy will get us there.”

Catelyn frowns at her son. “That riding will not be easy on a lady.”

“I’ll do it,” Shireen says firmly. She wipes at her eyes, trying to maintain her composure. Shutting her eyes tight, she takes a deep breath. “The ride is manageable. It will get us to Storm’s End.”

Ned gives Rickon a hard look. “Are you certain?” he asks. “You cannot run from this lordship.”

“I won’t,” Rickon says firmly. “I can’t run from her. Not again.”

Turning back into him, Shireen wraps her arms around his middle, pressing her face into his chest. Relief has flooded her system, and she feels like her future is finally falling into place. She will sit at Storm’s End, with her lord husband. They will learn the lands from her father. She will see her mother again. Everything will be fine. Shireen looks up at Rickon, hoping he feels as she does. “Tomorrow?”

“We’ll leave at first light,” Rickon confirms, hugging her firmly.

To Shireen’s delight, they meet no opposition from his family. They are even given the remainder of the day to prepare for the next day of travel. First, Rickon takes her to the armory, preparing a set of bows, arrows, knives, and a sword. It almost seems like too much, but Shireen feels safer for it.

“Do you remember how to shoot?” he asks her, pulling everything together in a pack. Shireen nods. She thinks it impossible to ever forget her successful shot and what it took to get there. “Good,” Rickon says. “We’re packing rations. We’ll be staying in inns, but should we need to hunt, we can.”

“Shaggy hunts for me,” Shireen tells him.

Rickon laughs. “Lousy wolf,” he says. “He’s never done so for me.”

Shireen grins at him, taking his hand. They head back into the keep, and Rickon leads them to the kitchens. Standing in the doorway, Shireen watches him rummage around for rations. Briefly, she wonders if someone has already prepared rations for them. A part of her thinks that it’s completely unnecessary because Lord Stark is currently writing to every keep they’ll meet along the way, and there is no need for them to live off the land while they travel. Still, she can’t quite stop the childish joy he has as he brushes off any offers of help and leaves a mess in his wake.

On his way out, he grins at her. Then, he shifts the pack of food and takes the weapons from her. Shireen smiles at him, glancing around him to see the mess he made. Rickon waves a hand. “It’s not that bad,” he says. “I’ve done worse.”

“Rickon!” Shireen scolds.

Behind them a serving girl steps up. She scowls at the mess but smiles when she sees Rickon. “Anything I can do for you, Lord Stark?” she asks.

“Nope,” Rickon says quickly. He takes Shireen’s hand, pulling her back to their rooms. They walk straight into Shireen’s room where Shaggydog awaits them. Shireen immediately goes to pet the direwolf, leaving Rickon to pack up some of her things.

“Do you think he knows that we’re going to make him carry us around tomorrow?” she asks, scratching him between the ears. The direwolf lets out a low sound that Shireen would have mistaken for a growl had she not grown so accustomed to him.

Rickon glances over, giving her an odd look. “Well, I know,” he says, his voice tinged with confusion.

Shireen gives him an equally confused look. Slowly, she crosses the room, taking a gown from Rickon and folding it up swiftly. She locates the smallest pack she has and shoves in some clothes for their journey. “What do you mean?”

She watches Rickon carefully, seeing him glance over to Shaggydog and cock his head to the side. He frowns, looking back to Shireen. “We’re the same,” he finally settles on.

“I don’t think I understand,” Shireen tells him. She sits down on the edge of her bed, trying to organize her thoughts.

Rickon hums out a soft sound, walking over and sitting next to her. “Shaggydog knows everything I know,” Rickon says. He twists his head about, trying to figure out his words. “We’re connected. I… I can _become_ him, if necessary. We share thoughts and sounds and sights. We’re the same.”

“You _become_ him?” Shireen asks, wondering if perhaps Rickon has hidden some strange aspect of his life. She thinks he may have been concerned about scaring her, but then she remembers how Shaggydog found her, how he saved her. Shireen thinks she should have known that Rickon was in love with her all along.

He shrugs lightly. “Not much anymore,” he tells her. “I couldn’t control it when I was little, but we learned, and it’s… _strange_ sometimes. I think he likes his freedoms, though.” Rickon glances over to Shaggydog and the direwolf immediately walks over to him. He runs a hand over his snout, smiling at him.

“So you know everything he sees and hears?” she asks. The memory of how Shaggydog comforted her when she was mourning the loss of Rickon hits her hard, and Shireen wants to curl up next to Shaggydog again. She remembers his whines and how he licked her face and hands, and Shireen realizes that the ache was Rickon’s. He gives her a soft smile, confirming her thoughts. Shireen feels a sob building in her chest, but she swallows hard. “What… what were you doing?”

Rickon looks down at his hands. He reaches for her hand and grips onto it hard. “I—that was right after I spoke with Bran,” he says. He closes his eyes tight and the grip on her hand loosens. “He admitted to me what happened, and I convinced him to abandon his betrothal. But I knew that you felt committed to it… I ran to the godswood. I definitely hit a few trees before I just collapsed. Shaggy was with you, and I didn’t want to intrude on that… I wanted to just be with you…”

Sidling up close to Rickon, Shireen wraps her arms around his waist. She hugs him tight, pressing against him as much as possible. Rickon returns the gesture, pressing her face into his neck. His body shakes slightly, and she feels him clear his throat.

“When you told me to go… and you were crying… I couldn’t be there,” he says slowly. “I just… I couldn’t…”

Shireen shakes her head, feeling the onslaught of emotions tearing at her. “Let’s not—” she chokes on her words and tries again. “It’s in the past now,” she says firmly. “And that was my fault. We’re here now, though. We’ll be in Storm’s End soon. We’ll be together.”

Rickon gives her a smile, and a wave of calm goes through her. “We will,” he says. Leaning against her, he kisses her forehead before hugging her tighter. Tilting her chin up, Shireen kisses him back, thinking that this was where they belong. Not in this bedroom, or Winterfell, or the North, or Storm’s End—just together.

 

 

At Rickon’s insistence, they travel well past Cerwyn on their first day of travel. Shaggydog picks up the speed accordingly, and Shireen clings to Rickon as they ride. She fears falling from the direwolf, but she also does so simply for proximity to him. The expanse of the North stretches out around them. Despite the past five years here, Shireen is still awed by its beauty and the terror it can hold. Though she hoped for a spring, winter is still in full force, spreading frost over the land. She hugs Rickon tighter, thinking that perhaps the South won’t be too warm for him until after they get there.

“If we travel into the night, we can stop at Moat Cailin,” Rickon tells her. They’ve stopped just off the road for food, tearing into their rations. Shaggydog smells at the snow a few feet away, tracing out a scent. “If we follow the kingsroad down, we can stay at an inn tomorrow.”

Shireen nods. She knows that Lord Stark gave them plenty of gold for the trip south. He also wrote to every keep along the way, though there are few large holdings off the kingsroad. Rickon seems to be planning their journey with as few stops as possible. After she told him that it took two moons for her to travel North, he seems eager to get there much faster. He seems to have allotted for two weeks’ travel, and she would think it impossible if not for the speed at which Shaggydog runs.

“He’ll be slower in the south,” Rickon says. “I don’t think he’ll like the South very much.”

“I don’t think _you_ will,” Shireen points out. She finishes off her portion of salted beef and wipes off her hands.

Rickon scowls, tossing the last of his food to Shaggydog. Then, he holds out a hand to her. “I will tolerate it,” he says. “And I will do my duty by you, no matter what.”

Shireen smiles at him, taking his hand. Immediately, Rickon pulls her in for a kiss. Then, he holds her by the waist and lifts her into open air. Though he wasn’t there a moment before, Shaggydog appears just in time, and she settles on top of the massive direwolf as Rickon climbs up.

Lessons in Winterfell certainly taught her more than she ever expected about the North. Shireen has no misgivings about Moat Cailin. She knows that it is long abandoned except in times of war, and the old, decrepit building would be terrifying if not for the presence of Rickon and Shaggydog. It is late when they get there. Without bothering to light a fire, Rickon wraps her up in cloaks.

“Can Shaggydog stay with us?” Shireen asks, feeling the chill of the room.

Glancing over to the direwolf, Rickon smirks. “He’s going hunting first,” Rickon tells her. “But he’ll return afterward. I’ll keep watch all night.”

“All night?” Shireen asks. She may be unused to traveling extensively, but a night-long watch doesn’t seem safe if they’re to keep their pace.

“With Shaggydog,” Rickon clarifies. He laughs at her and stretches out his hands toward her.. “I’ll be sleeping, too. Now, come here.”

Shireen settles against Rickon’s waiting arms, sinking down to the floor and leaning against him. Squirming slightly, Rickon settles, keeping her tucked into his chest. Moat Cailin is by far the quietest place Shireen has ever been before. Only the sounds of the night are around them, the distant sounds of liveliness in the sparse terrain and the wind rushing around. With Rickon’s warmth and his steady breathing, Shireen falls asleep quickly, thinking that even without a featherbed, she would gladly fall asleep next to him every night.

Shaggydog returns sometime during the night, and he now dozes off next to Shireen. She glances up to find Rickon looking out one of the windows, scrutinizing the landscape. He’s holding one of his daggers loosely and occasionally flicking it around. Without looking to her, he asks, “Did you sleep well? Or should we have featherbeds for the rest of the stay?”

Shireen giggles, sitting up and twisting to lean against the mass of direwolf beside her. “I’m not entirely opposed to sleeping next to you,” she says.

Rickon turns to her with a grin. “I had no intention of leaving you in a featherbed by yourself,” he replies. His grin turns slightly more devious.

Pursing her lips, Shireen narrows her eyes at him. “I thought you wanted to keep me a maiden until we are wed,” she reminds him.

“And I thought _you_ wanted me to ruin you in that cave,” he shoots back. With slow steps, he walks over to her. Bending at the knees, he leans over to kiss her. “Perhaps we shan’t do either. No one would know.”

“I would know!” Shireen corrects indignantly. “And it’s one thing when I’ve not been allowed to wed you than when you’re to be my husband.” 

“So I can’t lie with you until we are wed?” Rickon asks.

She can see the wheels turning in his head, knowing that he has ulterior motives. Shireen leans into him, reaching for his shoulders and pulling him into another kiss. Rickon complies, settling against her and holding her waist to press her against him. He begins to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue around hers and trying to move her closer. They are fully pressed up against each other when Shireen mutters out, “Lie with me you have. A few times now.”

Rickon scowls, pulling away to look at her. “Sleeping,” he points out. “I’ve not bedded you.”

“We’re going to be married soon!” Shireen says, giving him a big smile that he returns. His eyes light up quickly, and Shireen leans up to kiss his cheek. She moves toward his ear, kissing her way over his face.

Rickon chuckles, holding her gently. He turns to kiss her temple before standing and taking her with him. “Let’s make it sooner, then,” he says. “Though, Lord Reed may not let me share your bed if we stay at Greywater Watch tonight.”

“Jojen’s father?” Shireen asks.

Rickon nods. As they pack for the day of travel, Rickon tells her about the crannogmen, though his stories aren’t conflated like Arya’s and Sansa’s were. He simply tells her about how they navigate the swamps, how much more difficult travel will be without their help, and how much time they’ll lose if they go around instead.

“Won’t Shaggydog hate the swamp?” Shireen asks as they get near.

“He doesn’t like a thing about the South, Shireen,” Rickon tells her. “Direwolves are creatures of the North. They do not truly belong in the South. Even Greywater is farther than he’d like. I’m not sure what Summer is thinking.”

“Oh,” Shireen mumbles. She reaches down to stroke Shaggydog’s pelt, thinking that perhaps she should have never doomed native northerners to a live in the South. She cares far too much for both Rickon and Shaggydog to ever do them harm, though she thinks they wouldn’t have agreed had they not been sensitive to her needs.

“It’s selfish,” Rickon says, drawing her out of her thoughts.

Shireen looks back to him, tightening her arms around him as he leads Shaggydog South. “What?”

Rickon half-turns to look at her, dropping a hand down to her knee. “It’s not a sense of nobility or honor, coming south,” Rickon explains. “It’s not even entirely because I think I have to. I chose to take this journey because I refuse to live without you, Shireen. I cannot fathom a life where you are not mine. The sacrifices to be with you aren’t for anyone else but myself. Though, I hope you appreciate them.”

Squeezing him tighter, Shireen breathes into his back. All of her luck has mounted to this. They will journey together and be wed. They will hold Storm’s End and have heirs, and they may never see the North again. As much as Rickon tries to soothe her worries, she can’t help them from creeping up.

This persists through their journey, as both Rickon and Shaggydog seem to be getting more sluggish and lethargic as they go. They only thing that Shireen has no complaints about is Rickon’s insistence that they stay in inns and pretend to be husband and wife to share a bed. She hides some to keep from allowing people to identify her as they travel. However, there is no hiding Shaggydog, so Shireen relies on the relative secrecy of their betrothal to keep their lack of propriety unknown. 

True to Rickon’s prediction, he and Shaggydog have not taken very well to the South. After one and a half weeks of travel, they have taken rest just outside the kingswood. Shaggydog has slowed considerably in the past few days, though they are well ahead of schedule. 

Rickon does keep his word about not taking her maidenhead, though he doesn’t stop his hands from roaming over her at every possible moment. Every night they spend in an inn is mostly hours on end of kisses and touches bordering on the absolute destruction of them both. Shireen throws all caution to the wind as Rickon gets more and more intimate with her every night. There soon becomes no place on her body where his mouth hasn’t been, and his intent on bringing her pleasure fills her to the brim. She spends the majority of the nights spread out on the bed, seeking purchase wherever she can in attempt to pin herself in place. Rickon spares her no affection, though he demands that at least one of them remain clothed if only to keep them from breaking their rules.

Breathing hard, Shireen smiles up at the ceiling of their room. She glances down to see Rickon climbing up the length of her, dropping kisses as he goes.

“Have I satisfied you, my lady?” he asks. Rickon holds his body over hers on his elbows. His tunic was abandoned long ago, though his breeches are still fully laced.

Shireen takes advantage of his bare chest and runs her hands over him, making him groan. She grins up at him, watching his eyelids flutter closed. Rickon presses into her, letting his dead weight crush her into the featherbed. She laughs with what little air she has, and her hands trail down his back. As her nails scrape down his spine, Rickon groans again, half-rolling off of her to fully grab her chin and fit their mouths together. After such familiarity, it is second nature to slide her tongue into his mouth and deepen their kiss. In the same movement, she turns into him, hooking a leg over his hips.

“I am very satisfied, my lord,” she replies, nipping at his lips. Shireen is lost in the euphoria of the sensations running through her. There is nothing that can feel better than this, and she feels lucky to have such an enthusiastic and willing partner. Smiling over to him, Shireen reaches out for her shift, thinking that she can return the feeling.

Rickon gives her an odd look, obviously thinking that there is no reason for her to be clothed. Shireen persists anyway, only loosely covering herself and tying it shut hastily. Though Rickon’s curiosity is clearly piqued, he doesn’t question her at all. Pressing him onto his back, Shireen straddles his thighs, placing her hands over his stomach.

Slowly, she traces her fingers over him. She watches the path her fingers make, glancing up when Rickon grabs at her knees. His thumbs knead into the fold of her legs, and his eyes are darkened, though Shireen doesn’t know if it’s from the low lights of their room or something else. His usually overgrown hair looks all the messier splayed out on the pillows, and Shireen grins, knowing it is her doing.

“You needn’t wear a shift for that,” he says. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth, and Shireen thinks he rather resembles his direwolf showing off his fangs.

Shifting her weight, Shireen leans over his body, kissing him soundly. “I have other intentions,” she mumbles, going back to sit over his legs. Rickon still looks at her curiously. Slowly, Shireen trails her fingertips over him. With as little pomp and circumstance as possible, she makes for the laces of his breeches, focusing on her task of undoing them. Rickon inhales a sharp hiss, his hands tightening on her legs. Shireen _hm_ s at him, continuing with his laces until she slowly pulls them open. 

“Shireen,” he moans out. Shireen suppresses her grin, watching him squirm as she pulls down his breeches. Shifting her attention to his face, she finds him squeezing his eyes shut, his face screwed up in concentration. Blindly, she slowly searches him out, running her fingers over the length of him. Rickon bites his lip hard when she finally grips around him. “ _Shireen_ …”

“Yes?” she asks back, half-sliding off his legs. With one hand, she slowly pulls his breeches off entirely, though she doesn’t stop the movement of her other hand. Rickon lets out small noises, looking at her with a pleading expression. She smiles at him, continuing to move her hands over him. Rickon props up onto his elbows, glancing over to the flickering candle as it dies.

He groans louder in the darkness, and she hears him slump back down on the pillows. As gently as possible, Shireen slides down and rests her head on his hip. Rickon’s hands enter her hair, stroking it gently though his fingers tense when she shifts the pressure. Shireen presses a kiss to his hip, and he lets out an involuntary sound. Shushing him gently, Shireen leans up. Then, without preamble, she runs her tongue over the length of him.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Rickon mutters out. Taking that as encouragement, Shireen continues, pulling more of him into her mouth. Pulling and sucking at him, Shireen hears him gasping as she works him over. His hands are tight fists in the sheets, and Shireen slides out a hand to hold onto his as she continues. His grip on her hand is far gentler than she expects, but his fingers are a constant motion over the back of her hand. Shireen giggles slightly, though it is a difficult task with him filling her up. She pulls away slightly, but he immediately protests. “No, no, no, no, no,” he breathes out. “I—I can’t—”

Breathing in as much as she can, Shireen returns to the task. It doesn’t take long until he grips her hand tighter, spilling out a nonsensical string of sounds until he comes in her mouth. Lapping him up, Shireen swallows around him, making him moan. It is oddly satisfying to see him come undone by her doing, and she wonders how the sensations compare. Wiping off her mouth, Shireen sits up and massages out her neck.

“Come here,” Rickon mumbles out, oddly coherent for how he was just sputtering. Shireen complies, lying down beside him. She means to smile at him and ask him about it, but Rickon pulls her close. He kisses her deeply, sweeping his tongue through her mouth and humming through the kiss. It is a deeper and longer kiss than usual, and Shireen relaxes against him. Rickon draws away, and she can see his eyes shining in the low light. “Why haven’t we done that more often?” he asks.

Shireen giggles, curling up against him and stretching her hands across his chest before settling there. “You were busy,” she says, trying to shrug in her small space.

Laughing, Rickon wraps his arms around her, kissing her forehead. “That I was,” he says. “What lord would I be if I left my lady without her pleasures?”

“Should a lady not pay back the favor?” Shireen muses, combing her fingers through his hair.

Rickon hums, kissing her again. “I believe that favor will be payed in full once we are wed,” he replies. “Though you may not enjoy the outcome.”

Shireen rolls her eyes, cuddling against him and settling in for sleep. “I actually look forward to having your children,” she yawns. “Lovely red-haired monsters that run away at every opportunity.”

“Kissed by fire,” Rickon corrects. When Shireen hums back at him, his hands stroke through her hair. “That’s what Osha told me. Our hair is red because we have been kissed by fire.”

Shireen tucks in closer to him. Thoughts of their future together swarm her mind as she drifts off. Everything she imagines is entirely in flux save for Rickon: their home, how their children will look... The one constant that she will always have is Rickon.

Travel the next day is quite easy. The extra hours of rest have done Rickon and Shaggydog well. Both are extremely active as they travel, and Rickon remarks multiple times that they can make it to Storm’s End before nightfall. Seeing the familiar landscape has none of the recognition that Shireen expected from it. The South holds little comforts for her now, and only the thought of the people at the castle gives her comfort of her return. Rickon hides his annoyance, though Shaggydog growls more often at odd sounds around them. It is still cold, so being so far south as affected the weather significantly. There is little frost on the ground and Shaggydog treads extremely cautiously.

They stop for break just after midday. Shaggydog runs off to find water, and Rickon swings a bow around, shooting randomly into the trees. Shireen sits on a root, watching his concentration as he shoots.

“A bit of a waste,” he comments. “We’ve had no use for the weapons.”

“Is that an issue?” she asks back. “I’d prefer not having to shoot.”

“But you can,” Rickon points out. He raises a hand suddenly, and Shireen knows the signal even though she has never responded to it before. Rickon asks for silence. Slowly, he hands out the bow to Shireen, taking the quiver off his back and handing it to her as well. Shireen takes them both, strapping on the quiver and holding the bow. Rickon beckons her closer, pulling out one of his daggers. He presses a finger to his lips and crawls through the trees.

Shireen knows better than to say something, but she feels the weight of the situation on them. Rickon is a slow creep through the forest, glancing around as he goes. Ahead of them, Shireen hears a loud snarl. Immediately, Rickon straightens his back, looking around sharply. Of course, after all their luck heading south, Shireen’s hope that they would make it to Storm’s End safely has been thwarted. Now, she only hopes that the altercation is quick. Without warning, Rickon sprints ahead, and Shireen struggles to keep up with him.

He outpaces her quickly, and Shireen slows outside the clearing when she sees Shaggydog surrounded by what she can only assume are poachers. Pressing a hand to her mouth, Shireen stifles the sound threatening to escape her. She hides in her spot, thinking that her presence would only cause more problems. Still, she nocks an arrow, preparing to shoot if need be.

“Not often you find direwolves South of the neck,” someone says.

Shireen strains her ears to learn more about what happens. Rickon has taken up a stance next to Shaggydog, holding out his daggers. There is the crunching of twigs and branches that becomes accompanied by a low growl.

“Just on your own, boy?” a gruff voice calls. “Not very safe given your company.”

Rickon slowly scans the edges of the clearing, his eyes lingering just a moment longer where she stands. He shrugs off the comment, pressing a hand to Shaggydog’s pelt. He doesn’t respond, though he nudges the direwolf toward her. The moment draws out, far too long, and before Shireen registers it, three people have lunged at Shaggydog and two at Rickon.

With quick reflexes, Rickon throws his dagger, dodging the blow from the other attacker. Meanwhile, Shaggydog leaps straight over his own three attackers. They seem to be stunned by his size, and he tears out a throat before the other two move, both of them backing away from him toward where Shireen stands. Rickon takes notice, becoming distracted from his own fight as he checks on her. Drawing her bow tight, Shireen watches as Shaggydog pounces hard on another, and she hears the crack of bone under his paws. However, she is unaware of the man running toward her, but she sees Rickon drawing another dagger. He expertly throws it toward her, hitting its mark in the man’s neck just before he reaches her.

Behind him, the remaining attacker lunges at Rickon with a short blade. It moves clear through his thigh, and Shireen alerts up. Rickon shows no sign of pain, but she can see the man moving into him to strike another blow. Swallowing the nausea at the thought, Shireen recalls her brief shooting lessons, imagining Rickon beside her. She releases the arrow, praying that it doesn’t hit Rickon, and it hits its mark in the neck of the man. Shaggydog turns, then, pouncing over him and tearing out his throat.

Dropping her bow, Shireen runs forward to where Rickon is slumped to the ground, a hand pressed to his leg. “Oh, good,” he says. “You’re fine.”

Rickon wavers on his knees, reaching out with his free hand to catch himself as he falls slightly. Shireen beats him there, allowing his weight to rest on her. Her heart is pounding in her ears, and she fears she can’t hear anything given how loud it is. Still, she helps Rickon into a comfortable position, calling for Shaggydog to carry over their pack. To her surprise, Rickon shushes her. “I’m right here,” he mumbles. “I know.”

Shireen combs back his hair with one hand, digging through the bag for spare cloth. Locating the bundle, she folds it up, trying to press it over Rickon’s leg. He stops her, shaking his head and breathing hard. “Have we any wine?” he asks.

“You want a drink?” Shireen questions. She isn’t sure which of them is thinking straight, if either of them actually knows how to respond here.

Rickon shakes his head again, a small smile on his lips. “To clean the wound,” he tells her. “I doubt he cared for his blade.”

Shireen fumbles through the pack, spilling out quite a few things. “Oh, to think you just had to mention the weapons,” she mutters. Without finding any wine, she pulls out the water instead. Pouring it over his leg, Rickon winces. The amount of blood flowing freely from him worries her, but she maintains her composure to clean him up. Even after bandaging his leg as best as she can, Shireen feels that he is still losing far too much blood.

“We need to get to Storm’s End,” she says firmly. Though Rickon nods, Shireen can see him fading away. Tears spring to her eyes, and she hugs him close. “Just get on Shaggy,” she pleads. “I’ll get you to Storm’s End if you can just get on Shaggy. Rickon, _please_.”

His breathing is steady against her neck where he leans against her. Shireen turns to Shaggydog sharply. “Here,” she says firmly. The direwolf obeys, turning so that his bloody fangs are hidden from view. Taking a deep breath, Shireen wraps her arms around Rickon. She thinks that if it is at all possible to get him on Shaggydog, she will never be able to retrieve their belongings or weapons. They will have to race back to Storm’s End tonight either way, so he can see a maester. Shireen has no other means of treating his wound, and his words struck a new fear in her. Had the blade been dirty, should his wound fester, he will most certainly die. Shireen refuses to allow him to meet his end here, particularly without wedding her first. 

Grinding her teeth together, Shireen slowly shifts Rickon over the direwolf. She knows that Shaggydog has put forth a great effort to become as small as possible. When she fails and pauses to take a break, Shaggydog stands, circling slightly and digging a hole into the soil right next to her. When he goes down again, he is considerably shorter, and Shireen hopes that she can pull Rickon on top. Testing her grip on him, Shireen adjusts their position a few times, taking hints from Shaggydog’s whines to loosen her hold on his leg. The process is much longer than she expects, and it is slow-going. However, before the sun begins to sink, she manages to seat them both on top Shaggydog. Her skirts are in a tangle beneath them, and she has abandoned all of their supplies and weapons save for what she was carrying at the time: her own small pack. Still, she commands the direwolf forward, knowing that he will move as fast as Rickon can stand, and that Rickon may even be leading them.

As night falls, Shireen finally sees the walls of Storm’s End rising in the distances. In her arms, Rickon has paled considerably, and she kisses at his face, hoping that they can get him help in time. Shaggydog proves to be the best ward for potential hindrances on the last stretch of their journey. Few people give her passing stares, most shying away from the direwolf. Shireen tosses back the hood of her cloak when they reach the walls of the castle, knowing that any Baratheon soldier will know her for her greyscale. She never loosens her grip on Rickon, simply calling up for the gates to open.

Sparing no time in the courtyard, Shireen urges Shaggydog toward the keep. He snarls at any man that approaches, and easily clears the way to the door. However, she cannot open it from his back.

“Let me in,” she demands. “We need a maester.”

A brave soldier steps forward. “We can carry him, my lady,” he says. “Please, allow us to—”

Shireen turns sharply to the man. “If you refuse to open this door, I will have your head.”

“Shireen?” someone calls.

She has no time for this matter, but she turns toward the voice and repeats her demand. “Open the door and take me to a maester. I am riding this direwolf in whether you approve or not.”

“Bloody fangs and all,” the same voice comments. Shireen finds only a small level of comfort in seeing Devan Seaworth again. However, he steps past the men to open the door, gesturing for her to enter. Shireen urges Shaggydog in, thankful for the luxuriousness of the keep that is tall enough for Shaggydog to stand.

Rickon lets out a low gasp, and Shireen curls around him, shushing him gently and kissing his forehead. She strokes his face, wishing she could breathe life into him as he did for her. Devan glances back, clearing his throat gently. “This way, my lady,” he says. “To the maester’s chambers.”

“Thank you,” Shireen murmurs, instructing Shaggydog to follow. As Devan leads them, he calls to a few of the servants, sending word to her father of her arrival, another to the maester, and generally calling for Edric. Her cousin joins them soon enough, sparing her a glance and a nod before falling into step with Devan.

The travel through the keep is silent, save for the breathing of the direwolf and the quick footsteps. They enter the maester’s chambers soon enough, where a bed has already been prepared and the maester is running about and gathering a few vials. When he sees the direwolf, he pales, though Rickon is far less colored in her arms. Shaggydog goes down on all fours, turning to let out a low whine at Shireen. She shushes the direwolf, running her hair in his fur and trying to think through a way down.

“Where is he injured?” Devan asks, reaching up for Shireen’s hand.

She shakes her head, knowing that she needs to dismount at the same time as Rickon. “His leg,” she says. “His left leg—there’s a deep cut.”

“Get over here,” Devan calls to Edric. Together, they slowly manage Rickon’s dead weight and place him on the bed as quickly as possible. Shireen times her dismount at the same time, following Rickon down, and trying to help as much as she can. When he is finally laid out, Shireen sees how bloodied all his clothes are, and she immediately wants to tend to him. She glances down to her skirts, seeing how they are already bloodied and thoroughly ruined from the travel. She shrugs her pack into her hands, watching as the maester slowly tries to peel away his breeches. His is moving entirely too slowly, and Shireen is frustrated that he is ignoring the urgency of the situation.

Stepping in front of him, Shireen pulls her own knife from her pack, looking over to Shaggydog. “Tell me if it hurts,” she whispers. Then, she begins cutting through his breeches. She works as quickly as possible, tearing off the fabric. When Devan and Edric catch her intent, they begin helping as well, obviously concerned for her sensitivities, but she persists, tending to the area around his wound. She reveals a sliver of discolored flesh and tears spring to her eyes. “Oh no.”

Shireen cuts through the last of it, stepping away and wiping her hands on her skirts. She cleans off the knife the best she can but doesn’t do well. Soon, Edric plucks it from her grasp, trying to steer her out of the room. Shireen evades him, moving over to Rickon’s head. She brushes his hair back from his forehead, trying to ease the pull she feels in her chest. Someone places a hand on her shoulder, and she shakes it off, thinking that there is just enough space to climb onto the bed next to Rickon.

“Lady Shireen, your father,” Devan mumbles.

Turning back to the door, Shireen sees her father standing stoic and tall in the frame. He looks solemn, and Shireen wonders if he doubts her ability to negotiate a betrothal. However, he opens his arms just slightly and Shireen runs into them, letting a sob escape her.

“You should clean up,” he tells her, pulling her forcibly from the room. Shireen glances back, wondering if Shaggydog is better at her side or Rickon’s. She opens her mouth to respond, but her father cuts her off. “I’ll arrange for you to stay with him tonight. You can see your mother on the morrow.”

“Thank you,” Shireen mumbles again, hugging him tight. She pulls away quickly, thinking that she has ruined her father’s clothes. He waves her off.

“Be quick,” he tells her. “We can discuss matters come morning.”

Grasping onto her father’s hand, Shireen tries to sort through her thoughts. She has no words, though, so she runs off to clean and change as quickly as she can. Thankfully, there are new dresses in her rooms, and she splashes water over her skin, scrubbing away the blood that stains her skin. She hurries through the task, ignoring the cold and the crippling fear that builds in her throat. This was certainly nowhere near how she imagined her homecoming to be like. Shireen feels stressed about how everything will play out. Quickly, she runs back to the maester’s chambers, where Devan waits outside.

“Before you enter,” he says, cutting her off, “his wound is festered. The maester has done all he can to cut away the ruined flesh, but there is much damage. It’s cleaned as much as possible, but he’s lost too much blood. If he doesn’t eat soon, there may be no hope.”

“He will,” Shireen says firmly. She will force it of him if necessary. Shireen reaches for the door, but Devan stops her again. She shoots him a glare.

Devan swallows. “He’s yet to wake,” he tells her. “If he has milk of the poppy…”

“He will wake,” Shireen says. Pushing past Devan, she opens the door, finding Edric carrying a heap of bloodied bandages and dumping them into a bucket. Shireen quickly walks over to a spare pile of cloth and grabs one. She goes over and wipes Shaggydog’s mouth. “You need to eat,” she says firmly. “When food arrives, you will wake and you will eat. Then, you rest, but you need food first.”

Shaggydog whines at her. Shireen cannot interpret his meaning, knowing that Rickon’s intentions through the direwolf are skewed. Already, she feels odd speaking to Rickon through Shaggydog, but she knows that he will respond to it. She sits on the edge of his bed, seeing that his legs have been cleared of excess blood and covered in a blanket to spare her the sight. Shireen makes for his hair, combing through it until the food arrives. Shaggydog whines at the arrival, but Rickon’s eyes blink open, much to the maester’s and Edric’s surprise. Edric immediately runs from the room, and Shireen just gives Rickon a smile. He returns it before letting out a loud groan.

Moving behind him, Shireen helps him up. He rests against her chest, reaching for one of her hands as she spoons some broth and puts some bread in his mouth. He keeps himself awake, though he looks sleepier than usual.

“Is it the same day?” he murmurs between bites. Rickon opens his mouth obediently for more bread.

“Yes,” Shireen responds.

Rickon smiles at her. “Are we wed yet?”

Shireen returns the smile, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “I hope you’ll remember our marriage when it happens,” she tells him. “Now, save your strength. You need to heal.”

Nodding, Rickon leans against her, accepting more broth. “Will you stay?” he mumbles after taking the last bite.

“I will,” Shireen assures him, and he drifts off with a smile on his face. She strokes his face as he settles into sleep, and she holds him gently in her arms. 

A few moments later, her father walks in, closely followed by Edric. “He woke?” her father asks, eyeing the empty bowl. Shireen nods in response, feeling Rickon’s hand still over hers and taking every comfort she can from it. Stannis gives her a soft look. “He will have a long recovery,” he tells her. “Though, I’d hope to see you wed as soon as possible.”

“As soon as he can stand,” Shireen says. “Rickon won’t need to walk. He can ride the direwolf into the godswood.”

Stannis gives her a small smile. “This is Rickon Stark? Eddard’s youngest?”

Shireen nods, looking down and stroking Rickon’s hair off his forehead. “He saved me so many times,” she mumbles. “I only hope…”

“He’ll recover,” Edric says firmly. “No need to worry.”

Giving him a small smile, Shireen turns back to Rickon. They are too far down the bed to lean against the pillows, and Shireen resolves to stay seated up all night. Seeing her position, Stannis walks forward to rearrange the pillows. However, Shaggydog stands just as he makes it to the bed. The direwolf leaps onto the bed, settling right behind Shireen. Hesitantly, Stannis hands her the pillow.

“What of the direwolf?” Stannis asks.

“He stays here—with Rickon,” Shireen tells him. “They need each other.”

Stannis simply nods. For the first time, Shireen really looks at him. His age is starting to show, and he looks far more tired than she has ever seen him. All of his concerns and struggles have surely been building, and she wonders as to the condition of her mother. She always knew that he had apprehensions regarding her future and her mother’s, and she has not done well at bringing back a positive outlook. Still, she hopes that all will be well.

“I’ll write to Eddard,” Stannis says. “He ought to know the condition of his son. Perhaps if they travel soon, they’ll be here for your wedding.”

“You’ll send word for it?” Shireen asks.

“Of course,” he replies. “I believe he should be standing in about two months.”

Shireen gives her father a smile, watching him leave the room with Edric. Both exchange words in low whispers, blowing out the candles as they go and pulling the door shut behind them. In the pressing darkness, Shireen leans over Rickon, kissing his face again. Then, she shifts about under him, positioning them both as comfortably as possible for the night. 

Rickon wakes as is required of him during his recovery. However, he refuses to wake for anyone other than Shireen. Though she spends as much time learning the keep again and visiting her mother as possible, Shireen soon has to allot the time to make sure he eats. In her time at Storm’s End, she has discovered that her mother’s illness is due to a possible pregnancy so late in her life. While Shireen understands that the decision was foolish, she also knows that her mother always desired to give her father a true heir.

“Should she survive and have a son, you will no longer be heir to Storm’s End,” Stannis tells her a week into their stay. “Your trip may have been futile.”

Shireen shakes her head slowly, enjoying the walk on the grounds with her father. “No, I needed to see her and to visit again,” she says. “Rickon will recover. As much as it was for me, he still believes that coming South was solely for himself. I expect we are both willing to take whatever future we have.”

Stannis gives her a rare smile, one that appears on his face more often now. “You care for him,” he says simply.

“He saved me,” Shireen tells her father. She can feel the heat rising to her face, but she persists. “On the ride here, and when we were in the North. I’d already be dead without him.”

“Your illness?” Stannis asks. He stops at the edge of the courtyard, watching some of his men train.

“Yes,” Shireen replies. “Shaggydog found me, and they brought me back to the keep. It’s… the attraction is mutual. Our betrothal is one of founded feelings, not just safety.”

Despite the underlying implications of her statement, Stannis chuckles. “Perhaps sending you North was the best decision,” he says, “even if I couldn’t foresee the outcome.”

Shireen turns to her father smiling, glad that he has allowed the barrier of formality to crumble. Their relationship as father and daughter is far more enjoyable when he has fewer concerns regarding her fate. The effort that he always put forth for her was endearing, but Shireen was happy to do without it. Before she can turn back to the courtyard, heavy footfalls sound from behind her. Devan runs up, hastily bowing before them.

“My lord, my lady,” he greets. Then, he looks directly to Shireen. “Time for food.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Shireen steps away from her father. “If you’ll excuse me,” she says. She waits briefly for the small flick of his hand before she walks with Devan back to her chambers.

“I’ve tried everything to wake him up,” Devan says, sounding annoyed. “I was ready to pour water of him before the direwolf tried to take my hand off.”

Shireen nearly laughs, but she bites her tongue. “I expect Shaggydog is protective ever since the attack.”

During the beginning of her stay in Storm’s End, Rickon had been attacked once. The attacker never made it past the doorway before Shaggydog tore his hand off. Shireen was livid about the attack, sending Edric and Devan off to learn the source of the concerns. When it was revealed that the attack was in attempt to end her betrothal to Rickon, Shireen almost dragged him off to the godswood at that instant to wed him. Rickon, of course, laughed about the ordeal, jesting with Shireen that had he been able to stand, he would have wed her at that moment as well. Since then, the fear of Shaggydog had kept attackers at bay, even though Shireen demanded that he be moved to her room anyway.

As Shireen enters the room, Rickon wakes almost instantly. He pushes himself into a sitting position and reaches out for her. Shireen grabs onto his hand and sits next to him.

“Would it have been so hard to wake for food?” she asks.

Rickon grins at her. He moves her hand to his mouth and kisses it, obviously aware of Devan in the room. “Sitting’s painful enough,” he says. “If I’m going to be awake, I’d at least like a nice view.”

Shireen almost hits him, but instead she just shushes him and pushes food into his lap. “How is your leg?” she asks.

Rickon shrugs through the bite, having a mind to swallow before responding. “Getting better, I guess,” he says. “Your maester still won’t let me move, though.”

Grumbling through his meal, Rickon eats slowly. Shireen sits next to him the entire time, handing him a cup of water whenever he asks for it. Occasionally, Rickon shoots a look over to Devan. It takes a while, but Devan eventually leaves the room. Once the door shuts behind him, Rickon turns into Shireen and kisses her fully. Shireen almost drops his cup for surprise, but Rickon steadies her hand, continuing to kiss her. After a moment far longer than she expects, Rickon pulls away.

“The people here never leave us alone,” he says, grinning at her. He leans across her and sets the cup down, adding his plate to the table. Then, he grabs her about the waist, and pulls her down onto the bed. Shireen giggles, but she follows him down. Rickon tries to turn into her, but he stops when he half-rolls over his wound and groans.

Shireen chastises him, moving to walk around the bed and sit on his other side. Rickon smiles at her, opening his arms and beckoning her into his chest. Sidling up to him, Shireen rests over his chest, holding onto one of his hands.

“Can’t you just stay here?” he mumbles. Rickon squirms a bit, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Shaggy will keep everyone away.”

“Once we’re wed, I’ll not leave your side,” Shireen promises. She tilts her head up for a kiss that Rickon gladly gives. “And your family is coming for the wedding.”

“And then I can bed you,” Rickon muses, hugging her closer.

Laughing, Shireen sits up, hitting his chest in the process. “At the rate you can move, I’ll be the one bedding you.”

Rickon shrugs, tossing his hands behind his head. “I’m okay with that.” 

“Soon, then,” Shireen says, making her way to the door. “You’ll be standing before a Heart Tree.”

True to Shireen’s word, they make it before a Heart Tree as soon as the Starks arrive from the North. All the ceremonies and extravagant festivities that had been planned for the wedding are canceled due to Selyse’s status and the desire to keep her in good shape. Stannis apologizes profusely, though the Starks assure him that there is no reason to. Rickon is attempting to walk, though he is only slightly better than Bran even after two months’ recovery. Sansa and Arya only jest with him for a while before helping him into the godswood for the small ceremony.

Despite all of his fuss over having his sisters half-carry him to the godswood, Rickon grins the entire time Shireen sees him, even though he almost falls on top of her when placing the marriage cloak over her shoulders. Shireen tries to stop herself from laughing when it happens, and she reaches out to hold onto his elbows and steady him. When Rickon finally manages it, he grins wider.

“Can I kiss her now?” he asks loudly, turning to look at his family and nearly falling again.

Shireen holds him tighter, looking over to see the reaction. Stannis looks only slightly displeased at the outburst, but he smiles nonetheless. Ned and Catelyn wear overjoyed smiles. Sansa shakes her head slightly as Arya laughs loudly. Bran, however, gives him a thumbs-up. Taking that as the only encouragement he needs, Rickon leans into Shireen. He kisses her fully, and they nearly topple over. Holding onto his face, Shireen tries to get their balance back, only just succeeding.

“You’re my wife now,” Rickon mumbles, pulling away slightly. He shines with his happiness, and Shireen feels the joy seeping into her.

Laughing, Shireen steps into him. She wraps an arm around his waist and keeps him up until Shaggydog walks over. “I am,” she agrees. “Now, up. We’ve a feast.”

“And a bedding,” Rickon reminds her, winking. Slowly, Shireen helps Rickon up onto Shaggydog. The process is still slow-going, but easier now that Rickon can carry most of his weight again. He gives her a grin, patting the space next to him. 

Before Shireen can pull herself up to mount, fast steps come running in and out of the wood. Shireen looks over to the noise, finding Edric sprinting toward Stannis. He clutches at his side, breathing hard. Between breathes, he mutters out a few syllables. Catching his breath, he turns directly to Stannis.

“Lady Selyse,” he says. “She’s—”

Before Edric can say what happened, Stannis rushes off to the keep, hurrying to check on his wife. Shireen steps away from Shaggydog to pull at Edric’s arm. He looks shocked to see her there.

“What happened to my mother?” she asks. “Did anything happen? Is she—?”

Edric scoffs. “She’s well enough to yell at me for being a bastard,” he mumbles. “I called for a maester, but I don’t know—”

Shireen turns away sharply. She turns to Rickon’s outstretched hand and takes it. He pulls her up onto Shaggydog, struggling a bit from lack of use. Helping as much as she can, Shireen settles onto Shaggydog and urges him back to the keep. She hears the sweep of bows and small murmurs of _Lady Stark_ as they go, but she only focuses on leading them through the keep. Once outside the chambers, Shireen slides off Shaggydog, helping Rickon down. Together, they stumble into the room just as a sharp wail cuts through the air. Rickon’s eyes widen, and Shireen hurries to press them into the room.

Reaching her mother’s side, Shireen grasps tightly onto her hand as her father returns, carrying a bundle of sheets in his arms. Gingerly, he places the bundle into her mother’s arms. Selyse blinks at the babe, though she makes no effort to support its weight. Slowly, she turns to Shireen. “Your brother,” she mumbles, weakly gesturing toward the infant before slumping down.

The grip on Shireen’s hand loosens, and she looks down at her mother. “Is she—?”

The maester has since rushed over, removing both her father and his child. He fusses over Selyse, eventually pushing Shireen away. She collides into Rickon, feeling his support oddly strong over her shoulders. Her heart starts pounding in her ears, but Rickon’s grip only grows stronger, pulling her slowly out of the room. Shireen feels her breath coming short as someone brushes past her. She can no longer tell if people are moving into or out of the room. Even though people are talking at her, she can’t understand the words. Rickon backs them up to the wall opposite the door, pulling her into his chest and hugging her firmly.

“My mother,” Shireen mutters. “Is she…?”

Rickon nods slowly, looking down at her. He gently pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Even the strongest, healthiest women fail to survive childbirth,” he tells her. He pushes his mouth against her hair, breathing in deeply.

A new wave of panic rushes through Shireen as she thinks about the day and what it means. While she understands the parameters of her marriage and what has always been expected, the realization of what can happen to her seems to be crushing her. Helplessness courses through her, and she clutches onto Rickon, not wanting to face whatever comes. She just wants him.

Rickon notices, holding her close and stroking her hair. He kisses her forehead, letting her lean against him. It seems like hours before someone nudges her away, though she leaves the safety of Rickon slowly. Her father greets her, holding the newborn in his arms.

“I understand the shock,” he tells her, far calmer than she expects. “But would you like to hold him?”

Nodding, Shireen wipes at her face, taking a deep breath to reach for her brother. The infant is tiny, smaller than she expects of any child. Shireen holds him gently, wondering at the miraculous life that she holds in her hands. Thoughts flood her brain, but Rickon speaks for her.

“Have you a name?” he asks.

“Steffan, I think,” Stannis says, “for my father.”

Shireen nods, looking down at the child. “Steffan,” she repeats. She smiles down at him, thinking it strange that she could have a child the same age as her brother. “He’ll be the next lord of Storm’s End.”

“There are many reasons to celebrate today,” Stannis says. “I’ve already sent for a wetnurse. Come, let’s celebrate your marriage.”

Carefully, Shireen hands back the child, leaning back to help Rickon. As often as he’s been forcing himself to walk, his gait has improved significantly, though he still staggers sometimes. Still, it is an easy walk to the hall where a feast and guests eagerly await news. Rickon stumbles just as they get inside, and Shireen only just manages to get him to the table where his family sits. He grabs her by the waist as he goes, forcing her into his lap.

“Maybe I am pushing it,” he says, stretching his leg out with a constant bend of his knee. “At least I’m not as bad as Bran.”

“I’m doing perfectly well,” Bran replies, pressing his elbows into the table to lean over it. “Though, I’m glad I didn’t have to marry Shireen. Sorry, but I’m not too fond of this keep.”

Sansa makes a swipe at her brother, but Shireen just laughs. She reaches for Rickon’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Me neither,” Rickon replies. “Good thing we won’t have to stay.”

Before anyone can ask questions, Stannis enters the hall, calling for attention and dispersing the news. Shireen admires her father’s strength to speak so calmly and evenly about recent events, but he delivers the news with the same austerity and reverence that it deserves. He gives only as much detail as is necessary, and makes announcements when proper time comes for it. It doesn’t take long for everyone to realize that celebrations will continue, muted as they may be. Before he leaves the hall, Stannis beckons for Ned to follow him.

“What does he need Father for?” Arya asks, craning her neck toward the door.

Sansa passes her a roll to distract her. “They obviously need to discuss matters,” she says. “Shireen loses her inheritance to her brother now. They’ll need a keep to manage.” 

Rickon tightens his grip around her waist. He pulls her backwards and kisses her temple. “We don’t need a keep,” he says firmly.

Though Shireen agrees, she keeps her thoughts to herself. Already, they have survived so much together. Facing responsibility and a lordship seems so tedious compared to what their lives have been. In all honestly, she would almost rather be in the wild, with Rickon caring for her and teaching her to survive. Regardless of where they end up, Shireen will be content as long as she is with Rickon.

Her father spares no time in getting matters arranged. Before the night ends, they are summoned to his solar where he waits patiently with Ned Stark. Holding onto Rickon, Shireen slowly walks into the room. She meets her father’s gaze evenly, knowing that he has always had her safety and comfort in the forefront of his mind. She hopes the same is true now and wonders what it means for them.

“Lord Stark and I have come to an agreement,” Stannis begins evenly. “Should you desire it, I will still name you heir. Word to Robert can assure your position here, and I would not take it from you after so long.”

“However,” Ned interjects. “Seeing as the circumstances have changed, so have the possibilities. We will give you leave to choose your holding, should you choose.”

“Anywhere?” Shireen asks, looking between the two men.

“Within reason,” Stannis agrees, obviously knowing that she’d be willing to test his limits. Shireen thinks the warning is far more appropriate for Rickon.

Rickon looks down at her with a gentle smile on his face. Throwing an arm over her shoulders, he pulls her in close. Shireen can kind feel the comfort in his embrace, the spark of deviancy that he is tempted to act upon. “I don’t care,” he says evenly. “I already have what I want.”

Shireen grins back at him, accepting the kiss that waits for her. Already, she feels like the most fortunate person in the world. “North?” she asks him.

If possible, the smile on Rickon’s face grows wider. He leans down and presses their foreheads together. “North,” he agrees.

 

 

**Five years later**

“How many times do I need to tell you to relax?”

Sighing deeply, Shireen lowers her bow. Ever since Rickon’s recovery in the South, they have returned North and Rickon insisted that she learn to hunt and shoot on her own. She has improved significantly, but Rickon feels that she can be better and makes her practice every day. They declined all offers of lordships and lands, living at a small holding in the wolfswood where they are rarely visited but can make frequent trips to Winterfell. Rickon thrives here, and it took no time at all for Shireen to adjust to it. Even the constant snow no longer bothers her, she loves sharing warmth with Rickon so they can keep each other alive.

Shireen puts her fists onto her hips and glares at her husband. He stands a few paces away, leaning against a tree. “I manage just fine when it matters,” she says, walking over. “Better, I think.”

“Better?” Rickon questions. He wears a proud smirk, but Shireen only has eyes for the shifting bundle of furs that he carries.

“Far better than you,” Shireen mumbles. She bends down and moves the furs aside, looking at her sleeping son. After kissing his forehead, she stands to kiss her husband.

Rickon smiles into the kiss, leaning into her. “Perhaps,” he mumbles. “Particularly where children are involved.”

“He sleeps better with you,” Shireen says, drawing her bow again. Aiming for the distant marks on a tree, she shoots, hitting around the mark before hitting the center. “And my aim is nothing to laugh at.”

Reaching out, Rickon snags her wrist, turning her into him and kissing her again. Shireen reaches up to hold their sleeping son, covering him up in the furs. A short distance away, Shaggydog howls, the deep sound reverberating through the forest. To her surprise, the direwolf has never woken their son, and as often as Rickon proclaims that _He’s a Stark; he needs a direwolf of his own_ , Shireen is still awed by Shaggydog’s gentle nature.

Rickon furrows his brow, looking toward Shaggydog. “They want us back,” he mutters.

“Hm?” Shireen asks, dropping the bow and reaching out for her child. Rickon hands over the baby, picking up her things for her.

“My parents,” he says. “It’ll even give him a chance to meet his namesake.”

“Bran’s coming too?” Shireen asks, turning toward Rickon as they walk.

Rickon nods. “As well as Sansa and Arya. I imagine he’ll be shocked,” he laughs. “Who names their child after the man they were supposed to marry?”

“Are you implying that I wasn’t supposed to marry you?” Shireen quips back.

Rickon laughs louder, tossing his head back. “Of course not,” he says. “I was planning on stealing you.”

Shaking her head, Shireen steps into their small home, immediately unlacing her dress to feed the baby. Guiding him to her breast, Shireen looks up as Rickon enters. He steps out of his boots and takes off his cloak, joining her on the bed.

“He’ll survive the journey,” Rickon comments.

“I never said we wouldn’t go,” Shireen says. She’d strike her husband if not for the child in her arms.

“Good,” Rickon replies, leaning in to kiss her. “Because Lady and Nymeria have pups.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the end of this ridiculously long thing! I hope you all enjoyed it!
> 
> Also, expect updates to slow during the coming month because I will be participating in [National Novel Writing Month](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/vivialexa), but [I will still be taking prompts](http://frozensnares.tumblr.com/ask) and writing Rickeen during breaks from my novel.
> 
> Have a Happy Halloween, everyone! (And tell me what your costumes are going to be!)


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